embrace the world in grey

by TheTenthSunrise

Two Wolves are sent North. Deep in the North, beyond the Wall, a lone Wolf survives the cold. A Young Wolf lies in the dark, and waits for rescue. Winter draws ever nearer (or, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives)

25. THE BLOODY WOLF IV

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: THE BLOODY WOLF IV

Wolves and Snakes circle a bird. Arya Stark faces old wounds. The Dragon Queen grows suspicious, and meets The Bloody Wolf, who has been missing since the onset of the war. Petyr Baelish faces the sword and Northern Justice.

---

Arya slashes the dummy with Needle, mind alight with half a hundred scattered thoughts.

I, Robb of the House Stark, first of my name, King of Winter, King of The North, Lord of Winterfell…

Dawn has not yet broken, and the only light in this secluded courtyard she has made her own is a few torches she lit when she came here. Nymeria is her only companion, silent and still in the corner, her golden eyes never leaving Arya as she spins and as she dances around the unmoving dummy. Needle whistles in the air, and all around her, she can hear the castle slowly waking up.

…declare that Petyr of The House Baelish is a traitor to The Realm, a Traitor to The North, and a breaker of oaths–and for all of this, he must die.

She doesn't have faith in this working perfectly. She knows the way the world works far too well, now, knows just how much fate twists and turns. She does believe that Petyr Baelish will die before the end, but not that he will come easily, come quickly and cleanly. They have to tell Royce, otherwise, they risk honour-born vengeance from The Vale, but that is where this might fall apart. Baelish may still turn his tail and run, like some witless coward

Any man found to be harbouring him will die with him, as with any man who seeks to thwart justice. I declare this here, in the sight of Gods and Men.

They've been playing a game around him for some time now. Arya has heard all that he has ever whispered into her sister's ear from her own mouth, has watched Sansa's lips curl back with a wolfish sneer. When she does that, she looks like any of the Wolves do, when they bare their teeth, and it is perhaps even more frightening on a woman, for it reveals a wilder edge to her. Petyr Baelish, though, does not have the intelligence to know what grave he has dug for himself.

Arya slices again at the dummy, feeling her heart hammer like a drum in between her ribs. Anger, fear, and the sweet song of revenge are all she knows–that and the blade in her hand, a harbinger of doom, a thing so small that many miss her. Arya Underfoot, she thinks, and it makes her smile.

They'd sent word to The Vale following Robb's message that he was heading home, requesting the presence of one Robin Arryn in Winterfell, so as to receive Robb Stark. Yohn Royce had been all for it, from what she can remember, wanting her younger cousin to finally begin to play into the politics of the realm. Baelish, on the other hand, had offered no opinion of his own, which is telling enough for a man who seems incapable of keeping his mouth shut. She has no hope that he is coming.

Which means all of this is just that much more dangerous. The Vale is a delicate thing, and while Arya wants to trust in Lord Royce, trust that he can sweep in and deal with the avalanche that they are about to willfully set off, but she was burned away from trusting anyone but her House a long time ago. They might just spell their doom with this, lose The Vale, and with it, a crucial piece of this delicate war they are preparing for. Who knows where The Vale would run if they turned from them?

Cersei Lannister, The Red Woman, Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, The Mountain.

The names ring in the back of her mind, and she begins to whisper them as she moves faster and angrier against the dummy. Cersei, The Mountain, and The Red Woman are still out of her reach, burning hot in the cavity of her chest. The other two, though…they lie in these walls. They are within her reach, and she could do it if she wanted. She could take her vengeance for Gendry.

But Jon's friend, Ser Davos, says that Gendry lives, and that he knows where he is. He's on his way to go get him, right now, and the thought of that is unmooring. She knows why The Brotherhood did what they did. And against the horrors of the rest of the list, the memories and all she has learned about those three, the ache is so dull, doing nothing but making her feel empty. She's lost some flame, and now…she does not know where that puts her in this fragmented world.

She halts as she slashes at the dummy one more time, breathing heavily as she glares at the dummy, which is full of holes and the like. For a moment, she pictures Cersei like that, dead like a fool, laid low by Arya Underfoot, the Stark she'd dared to forget. It's a nice image, one that warms her and makes her vision clear, but it is not enough to make her feel tethered back to reality, to make her feel any less empty.

Jon's absence is weighing her down. His fear and his abandonment have said more than he ever has, and for all she loves her brother, and for all she understands, it still hurts. One more person has run away, and she can hardly unpack the swirl of emotions around the company he keeps. She can see Theon Greyjoy, in her mind's eye, haunted and cold, and only kept alive and off her list because of what he did for Sansa. She loves her sister more than words, and she doesn't want to be the one to break her heart.

"You're better with that than I remember," A voice calls from behind her, amusement dripping from every word. She does not visibly startle, but she feels her heart skip a beat behind her ribs, and she forces herself to take a measured breath as she sheathes Needle. She takes one more breath before she turns to face the speaker, her face a neutral mask.

The Hound, Sandor Clegane, is leaning against one of the walls, arms crossed over his chest, eyes bearing deep into her. His grey eyes meet hers, the both of them silent as all that they left undone begins to stretch between them, the memory of the last they saw one another fresh in her mind. And, judging by the look in his eyes, they're the memories in the forefront of his mind, too. She feels something strange rise in her, something that has some shape of shame and regret

Her silence seems to amuse him, and he snorts, drawing closer to her. He sends a glance towards Nymeria, an odd look in her eyes. "You never used to shut up. Now you're just standing there like a damn mute."

"Guess I've changed," She says wryly, and he snorts in amusement, a roll of his eyes making it well known. She runs her finger over Needle and says, in response to what he first said, "I've had more time to use Needle since we last saw one another."

He huffs a laugh. "You don't say."

The silence hangs for a moment, the fire of the torches crackling. Snow falls gently all around them, and she knows that if she could see over the walls of the courtyard, the sun would be peeking up, just over the horizon. She purses her lips and looks away as she asks, a raw edge in her voice, all the questions burning in her mind and demanding much of her, "What are you doing up here?"

"What's it look like?" He says roughly, sending an intentional look around at the empty courtyard. "Wandering this fucking castle of yours."

She turns to look at him, then, levying a glare onto him, but for what, she cannot quite say. He does not back down from it, and that simple fact makes her insides curl and her anger burns just that much brighter. "No, I mean, what are you doing up here? You joined the Brotherhood. You brought a Wight to Dragonstone, to The Dragon Queen, on my uncle's orders. You're here now." She roves her eyes over him and takes a half step back, falling into a sort of defensive position as she asks, "Why? When was the last time you fought for anyone but yourself?"

He seems to hesitate, and she sees something slip between the cracks for just a slip of a moment. "I fought for you, didn't I?" He asks her, and she has no answer to that. He raises his brows at her as if to say, you see? She sighs heavily and moves to turn away, but is stopped by the sight of someone coming into the courtyard. Sandor says, "Oh, for fuck's sake. May as well be at a bloody wedding."

She turns properly to see Beric Dondarrion standing there, his one eye glimmering as he regards her, a slight smile on his face. The names cling to the back of her mind, dark and seeping into every joint in her body, choking the very air out of her lungs. Cersei Lannister, The Red Woman, Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, The Mountain. Beric nods at her, "My Lady–or is it Princess?" He looks at her knowingly, and she shrugs. "It's good to see you again. I'm sorry we parted the way we did."

Sandor turns to her, his dark eyes glimmering, amusement in every inch of his face. There's a knowing undertone in his voice as he tilts his eyes towards the man who stands patiently and silently, and asks, "Was he on your list?"

Cersei Lannister, The Red Woman, Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, The Mountain. The five names ring in the back of her mind, ever-present, her true company through it all. They helped drive her back home and helped her survive The Waif and all that has come upon her. But when she looks at Beric Dondarrion, the ache is no longer there, the anger at him is washed out by other storms, an understanding that befits the woman she has become. They were at war. And he fights here, does he not?

"For a little while," she says, her eyes never leaving him. It is frightening how easily the names slip from her list, how quickly it comes down to three, three names that have ruined her house and her life, and so much more. Cersei Lannister. The Red Woman. The Mountain… but perhaps it could be four. Petyr Baelish, she silently adds, and it slots together perfectly.

She thinks briefly of the second name. She doesn't care what The Red Woman may have done for Jon, or what gift she gave back to them. She has heard what she did to little Shireen Baratheon, and she has never stopped feeling like she failed Gendry. She will not let that woman live, not when it is all as it is. She will not let any of them live.

"That's all right," Beric says, and she thinks of forgiveness, of all the aches that might never fade. She can hear her father's voice, the voice of a hundred Northmen, repeating the same words that she has lived and killed by. The North Remembers. Beric looks around, at the falling snow, and approaching dawn. "The Lord of Light has brought us together all the same. This is his moment. When light–"

"Thoros isn't here right now, so I hope you're not about to give a sermon," Sandor growls, cutting him off. Arya feels herself smirk. "Because if you are, the Lord of Light's gonna wonder why he brought you back nineteen times just to watch you die when I drag you to the fucking walls and chuck you right over them."

Beric laughs at that, and Arya feels herself smile. There is still much for her to say to the both of them, wounds that still bleed raw, but she pushes it aside, for now, the thoughts from earlier returning to her. She palms Needle and glances at the dummy, her eyes caught on it, her mind trailing away, to other thoughts, better horizons. So much so, that she does not notice Robb's approach until she sees Beric bow in the corner of her vision, and say, "Your Grace."

She turns to her brother and sees an expression on his face that makes her heart stall. "He's gone," Robb says, voice cold and angry. "We're meeting in the war room. It's time to go."

I, Robb of the House Stark, first of my name, King of Winter, King of The North, Lord of Winterfell declare that Petyr of The House Baelish is a traitor to The Realm, a Traitor to The North, and a breaker of oaths–and for all of this, he must die. Any man found to be harbouring him will die with him, as with any man who seeks to thwart justice. I declare this here, in the sight of Gods and Men.

Well, she supposes it was never going to be that easy when all is said and done.

—

She can feel her siblings' anger like a band around her throat, feel how it consumes and chokes out the whole of the room. And, judging by how warily half the room is looking at them, she knows it's not just her acute sense of them from how long she has known them all that is allowing her to sense their rolling emotions. They must all look so very cold and furious, sitting around the table, glaring at the maps of the Wolfswood, with the fire crackling in the corner as the only sound over the wind outside that howls gently in the distance.

"I do not disagree with this movement, from all I know of Petyr Baelish," The Dragon Queen finally breaks in after a long moment of silence, looking at the four of them with a wary expression. The wolves are unsettled, prowling the edges of the room, and that cannot be helping, Arya does not doubt. "At the same time, I must ask: Why the urgency and the need for it now? Has something occurred?"

Arya and her sister glance at Robb at the same time. They cannot say what Littlefinger may have learned, but they cannot wholly avoid all the reasoning. Robb's face is carefully neutral as he begins, "Yes, and no. He has said some concerning things to us, as of late, making us think that he seeks to undermine us. But beyond that, my sister tells me that Lord Varys here has revealed some telling information about the man and the role he played in my father's death."

They all turn to look at The Spider, and she catches Sandor's eyes from across the table. He and Beric Dondarrion both had come as well, for lack of anything better to do, and she is glad for it, and the knowing looks he is sending her. Varys peels himself out of the shadows, hands folded between him, a soft and disarming look on his face, though Arya knows well enough to not trust it. She has heard much about The Spider, enough that she feels her hackles rise at the sight of him. Behind her, Nymeria's tail begins to flick through the air, agitation rolling off of her.

"Indeed," he begins in that soft voice of his that makes her stomach roll and all her hair stand up on its ends. "Petyr Baelish conspired with Cersei Lannister and her bastard son Joffrey both, to betray Ned Stark, for he had learned the truth and would soon reveal it to the realm. So, he put a knife to Stark's throat, then they put him in chains, and…well, we all know how that ended." He sends a weighty glance to Sansa, and Arya can sense how tense her sister is at her side, how forced her calm is.

She can still hear the screams her sister let out, the pleas that fell on unhearing ears. She can still recall the feeling of Yoren's leather jerkin against her cheek, the sound of the birds that flew, the feeling of that crushing realisation of what had just happened washing over her and casting her miles out to sea. Her world ended that day–all their worlds ended. And Petyr Baelish is one of the men who made that so, one of the men with blood on his hands. And so, she will see justice delivered, if it is the last fucking thing he does.

She misses her father. They all do, she knows. His absence is an unending ache in all of their hearts, a sickening absence that will forever be a part of them. Sometimes, she glimpses Jon from the corner of her eyes, and for just a moment, she thinks it is her father, having come back at last to hold them close and kiss their cheeks and to hold them tight. But then, she'll turn, and it's Jon who stands there, looking at her like he knows who she is seeing and like it tears him apart that he will forever be a ghost of a dead man to so many. He is the one cursed with their father's image.

"I see," Daenerys says in a careful voice, her eyes flicking back to look at the wolves. Arya can sense Nymeria in the back of her mind, and she knows well enough that the agitation that has filled the room is bleeding into their wolves as well. Such is the nature of the blood in their veins, the magic that has settled deep roots within their bodies. "How can I help you to achieve the vengeance that you are owed?"

"My sister will hunt him," Robb says flatly, plainly, glancing at Arya. Her expression does not change as everyone glances at her warily, knowing well enough what they see. She thinks she glimpses a smile on Sandor's face, and she knows he is the only one who is not of her House and is not unsettled by the cold expression on her face. The rest though, they have fear in their eyes. Her father had never let them forget that they were Starks of Winterfell, of the house with Wolves as their sigil. And it is wolves who hunt, just as she will hunt Petyr Baelish to the end of the world, if need be.

Robb looks at her, and she nods, meeting his eyes. "Company will not be barred, but it cannot be too many people, and they must be fast. Arya–" she raises a brow at him, "–I want you to take Nymeria and Lady both. Their pack from the riverlands patrol the wolfswood, and with them both there, perhaps they can become some aide to us."

"Understood," she says with a nod, turning to look over the assembled company. Her eyes catch on the Three Sand Snakes, leaning against the wall, murmuring amongst themselves. She has heard much about them, and she feels the shaping of an idea rise in her. One of them turns their dark eyes to her, and they meet briefly, but long enough for Arya to smile, already suspecting what comes next and feeling a surge of interest and grim delight rise up in her at the thought.

"We will join her, if we are welcome," The oldest of the three Sand Snakes says, stepping forward just a bit, her dark eyes roving over the crowd, her spear ever in hand. "We enjoy the hunt, as much as anyone, and would like to see him dead, as well." Arya thinks her name is Obara, but she is not fully certain. At any rate, it doesn't matter, as Robb nods his approval, meeting Arya's eyes and jerking his head towards the door in silent order. And with a bare-faced smile, she nods and does as she is told.

The Sand Snakes follow behind her and the two wolves at her heels, and that is strange. To be followed and to be looked at like that–not with fear, but with respect. She is no stranger to fear or death. But wary respect, to a girl like her, a girl who has spent the years underfoot, spent the years running, spent the years being feared and feeling fear, is new to her. The soldiers in Winterfell are wary of her. They are afraid of her. They respect her because that is how this world works, and she has titles that are hard to deny. But still, she's never seen those married together as she does on the faces of The Sand Snakes.

None of them speak until they are in the Wolfswood, Lady and Nymeria disappearing into the trees, streaks of grey that she can hardly track. It is the middle one, whom she thinks is named Nymeria, who calls out to Arya, her accent sharp as she says, "Are your wolves tracking him?"

"Yes!" Arya says, though she is relying more on her knowledge of Littlefinger and reasonable deduction as to where she'd run if she was him. Not straight to The Vale, but perhaps South Westwards, towards Southern ports that can bear him home. He will find no harbour though, and she thinks that following the wolves is looking like a very good idea the faster they press on, the louder they begin to howl.

But then her hope is dashed as, before she knows it, they come suddenly upon The White Knife. Nymeria and Lady prowl the banks, growling at the rushing river. Arya feels like snarling herself as she draws her horse up short, glaring across the banks of the river. She knows that it is shallower here and that with the horses, they can cross, but that does not account for the cold of the water and what harm that may cause. She just hopes that Baelish is dealing with that.

"What now?" The third and final Sand Snake, Tyene, asks, her voice disarming in its softness. "We can cross the river, yes, but at harm to ourselves, and it will take time for the wolves to catch the scent. You are certain that they have caught it, in the first place?"

"Lady has spent much time around Baelish," Arya says, shifting slightly as she thinks it through. "And he left barely an hour before us. She can track the scent, and I have little doubt that she has been doing so. But I do not know what will happen to that scent when we cross the river, if we even can." She inhales deeply, trying to calm her racing heart and just think.

"How do your wolves know how to hunt him?" Obara asks, her voice gruff and her dark eyes looking at Arya warily. She has no tangible explanation to that, no explanation that these Dorne-born women will be likely to understand. She knows it is folly to try and explain the bond that exists between skinchangers and their creatures, how their emotions and their thoughts and their wants bleed together into one. She cannot count how many times she has woken up from a wolf dream and truly thought that her mouth was still dripping blood.

So, all she says is, "Such is the way of our wolves and our connection. But it doesn't matter. If we cross the river quickly, we can perhaps prevent any sickness given by the cold from setting in too deeply, and will still have hope of overtaking Baelish and whatever company loyal to him now rides with him." She spurs her horse forward, and turns to smirk back at them, feeling a strange rush in her, "Do your best to not freeze."

She hears them cursing softly behind her as they cross the river, and she smiles grimly, cold herself but able to bite her tongue and suffer through. The wolves wade through and shake out their coats as the Sand Snakes do their best to warm themselves back up. Arya watches them carefully as they slowly draw forward, noses pressed to the ground as they search for the trail.

Nymeria, the Sand Snake, that is, comes up to Arya as they follow behind the wolves at a slower pace. "Your wolf. She is named for the Queen from Rhoyne, is she not?"

"Yes," Arya agrees with a smile that the Sand Snake matches and the both of them watch her wolf in silence as she prowls. Arya spent so long bereft of her, spent so long with their connection pulled taught by a distance that, even now, being close to her makes her heartbeat rush in her chest with wild glee and joy. They are all bound to their wolves, she and her siblings. Bound to the world and the patterns of it in a way that no one outside of them can ever understand.

And, right then, something strange comes to them. Arya pauses as she sees the black raven land, cocking her head at it as she sees it. It stares intently at her, and something pulls at the back of her mind, a residual familiarity that makes her skin prickle. The Sand Snakes are murmuring behind her, and the wolves go on ahead, but this raven has captured her, and–

"Arya!" It croaks, and she feels a smile split her mouth as understanding comes. She outstretches her arm, and the raven comes down instantly, grip notably gentle on her arm.

It quarks happily as she scratches under its beak and whispers softly, "Hello, Bran." It quarks at her again, flapping its wings. She glances over at Nymeria and Lady, seeing their yellow eyes bearing into her, waiting for something. Waiting for her, most likely. She glances back at the raven, nodding as it quarks again and begins to fly towards the wolves, who bound after it once it passes them. She meets the eyes of the three Sand Snakes, and says, "Follow the bird."

They do just that, their horses' hooves thundering under them. She has little doubt that Baelish and his men are riding swiftly, but even if they are Valemen, they will struggle in the snows and the strange ground under them, and she doubts even less that she has the better horse. The Sand Snakes are also doing a good job of keeping up with her, and she finds herself wondering if they are able to ride easier on the snow since they have grown up with sand under them. A question for later, when this is done.

As the woods press on around her, sparse and thin, nothing like the Wolfswood to their east, to their backs, she hears howls consume the air. A feral grin splits her face, images flashing past her eyes of the same woods, but from a lower vantage point, the wind that much sharper with the scent of fear and the patter of paws on soft snow. The bird Bran is piloting circles them a few times, its screech filling the air with a haunting tune that makes her heart harden in her chest. She spurs her horse on harder.

She hears one of The Sand Snakes exclaim in surprise and near awe as some of the wolves break through the treeline and begin to run alongside them. They are the wolves from The Riverlands, the ones they say followed Nymeria and her Northwards when her wolf returned to them, the ones that haunt the Wolfswood. Some of the hunters even suggest that this pack of fifty or so have joined with a few others that already existed in the Wolfswood, adding to their already large size.

The group that runs beside them is perhaps twenty-strong, howling into the winter air. She looks at The Sand Snakes, keeping pace with her on their horses, faces set in stone, eyes firm. The youngest, Tyene, with golden hair, smiles sharply at Arya when she catches her eyes, and Arya finds herself reminded of the edge of a knife. She has heard much about The Sand Snakes, and though it rankles her somewhat that her vengeance may have to be shared in some piece with them, she is glad for their company. The company of women who are nearly as dangerous as she is.

And then, she hears the shouting of men. She does not have to look at The Sand Snakes to know that their faces split with vicious grins in tandem with hers. She can sense Nymeria, in the back of her mind, sense her wolf's hunger and lust for blood. Their wolves have always had such a sense of those who seek to harm them, and Nymeria doubtless knows that now is the time to turn against this man.

Her horse has been pushed hard, she knows, and yet, she presses it on just a bit more. It is of the North, as with the ones The Sand Snakes ride, which means that it is hardier than most others. She will tend to her horse later, when they are home and gift her with all the treasures she deserves for being such a faithful steed, but only once this act is done. Still, she holds the reins in one hand so she can briefly rub her neck, silently willing soft praise and gentle encouragement. She knows, well enough, what magic is in her veins. She doesn't know if that will help here, but there is no harm in trying.

Needle grows weighty at her side as they break through the last of the scattered trees, to finally see Baelish and his men ahead. Their horses are lagging she can tell, and she is glad that their push of their foreign horses has allowed them to be overtaken. And, judging by the looks in Littlefinger and the two Knights with him's eyes, they know that they have been caught by the jaws of the god of Death.What do we say to the God of Death? Syrio's voice rings in the back of her mind, followed shortly by Jaqen's, saying those two words that define it all. Valar Morghulis.

"Not today," she whispers, and draws Needle, snarling lowly as Nymeria comes to her side, as they hurtle towards Baelish. She holds her reins and Needle in her off hand for just a moment, the snow flurrying around them. It is not only falling around them but it is being thrown up by the hooves of their horses and a gust of wind that cuts through the world, carrying the howls of wolves and the screeching of Bran's raven on it.

She draws up beside him, and reaches out with her free hand, grasping the back of Baelish's jacket with a snarl. He makes a choked noise as he is suddenly stopped, and yet she does not let up. It is only when she has half-pulled him from his saddle that she lets go, coming around in an instant, watching him crumble in the snow. The Knights draw their blades but are stopped by the Sand Snakes coming in, Lady snarling between them, haunches up and yellow eyes dangerous and cold.

She looms over Baelish on her horse, staring coldly at him, Needle glimmering in the morning light. Slowly, he looks up, and she feels something dark settle over her as she sees the trickle of blood that is running down his face, likely from him hitting something when he fell to the ground. His green eyes blink up at her with unceasing terror, and she lets a smile across her face then, levying Needle at him. He swallows loudly, the wet click audible in the silent world. The howls and the wind and the calls of The Raven have all ceased, leaving nothing but this moment.

"Lord Petyr Baelish," she drawls, glancing at the knights as they shift uncertainly. She knows what they say about her, with plenty of her own ears to the ground when it comes to how she is seen. Much of The Knights of The Vale find her unsettling, she knows. But better to be feared by them than destroyed by them. "Taking the coward's way out, I see."

"My Lady," he says, voice shaking just a smidge, betraying his fear. "I do not know of what you speak. These men and I received urgent news from The Vale before dawn, news that required us to drop everything and leave. I do not see how this is a coward's way?"

"Always the liar," she says with a roll of her eyes, getting off her horse to come closer to him, Needle held in a white-knuckled grip. He probably thinks himself clever, for he has always been so, but she is not some witless fool, not some little girl who can be bent to his will. And, judging by that look that is slowly blooming in his eyes, he has realised this little fact, and it is making fear–real and unshakable fear, the thing he has wielded so deftly–seep into his bones at last. "I am not in the mood for games, Lord Baelish. You have been declared a traitor to The North. And, as you heard whispers, and saw the jaws coming for your throat, you decided to run."

Nymeria comes up to her, snarling softly. Baelish looks at her wolf in naked terror, his green eyes wide and wild, so much fear in him. She thinks of her doomed aunt, and while all she has heard of her makes no love burn in her, she can feel some sympathy for the woman who was so deftly twisted by this man, only to be murdered by him all the same. Sansa had told her what he'd said, and she recalls it now with a rush of anguish for her aunt. I have only ever loved one woman: your sister.

She looks at The Sand Snakes, then, at their dark eyes and grim expressions. They nod at her as they meet her eyes, and she feels darkness crawl into her as she looks at the Knights. "What are your names?" She asks, so very softly. They do not answer–that is until Lady and Nymeria start to come closer to them, accompanied by some of the other wolves from the pack, snarling and terrifying to the last. And then they are all words.

Their names are Deran and Alran of The House Stelle, brothers whose loyalties lie towards Baelish due to him being the one to suggest them for Knighthood, some years ago, raising them from nothing more than talented peasant boys to petty lords. A noble, if far from unique story, and though she supposes they cannot be blamed for their loyalty, Robb's decree had been plenty clear. Any man found to be harbouring him will die with him, as with any man who seeks to thwart justice. And as always, Valar Morghulis.

"Lady Obara, Lady Nymeria," she says, and they both straighten in interest, which makes the two Knights pale and look like they are very close to pissing themselves. She smiles sharply, a wolf to the very last, and says, "Bind Sers Selles' hands. I give them to you."

They start begging from the moment they are dragged off their horses, and she sees Baelish go even paler as he watches. She slowly draws the knife from her side, sheathing Needle as she does, and presses it to his throat, forcing him to watch as his so very loyal mens' hands are bound behind them, hearing how they crumble. It's cruel, and something her father would never have done. But he is long gone, thanks to the man whose knife she presses to his throat, (just as he did to her father) thanks to him. She does not care. He helped take her innocence and all her guile away from her, and now he will pay for it with pain and the sight of death. What do we say to the God of Death?

"Please!" One of them screeches as Lady Nymeria draws a knife. Obara nods at her and steps back, leaning on her spear as Tyene comes up to her like a ghost. Their eyes bare into the scene, and Arya sees a familiar hard edge in them, a familiar desire for vengeance. She wonders what role Littlefinger has had in Dorne, what justice they seek from him, beyond his death. They're both blubbering now, begging for mercy, for penance, insisting they didn't know. But no one buys it.

"Shut the fuck up," Nymeria hisses at the Knights before slicing both their throats in a single move.

Littlefinger looks the closest to horrified she's ever seen him, blinking at the two unmoving corpses. Arya presses the knife to his throat a bit, feeling something dark and wild consume her, begging her to end it here. But she reels herself back in, reminds herself that her siblings deserve this judgement as much as she does, and that it will be no great loss to show their visitors what Northern Justice looks like. So she just nicks his throat with a guttural sound, pulling away and sheathing her knife again.

"Bind his hands," she says darkly, and they nod at her, understanding unlike any other in their eyes. They know what a killer looks like, no doubt, and perhaps understand, more than anyone alive in this world, what burns in her, what keeps her going. The North Remembers, she thinks darkly as she pulls some flint from her saddlebag, something she took to keeping while on the road with The Hound, and something she has not stopped doing since.

She goes to grab a branch from a nearby tree, and by the time she comes back, The Sand Snakes have Littlefinger bound to a horse. They watch her with dark eyes as she takes the swords from The Knights' sides, watch as she whispers their names under her breath before igniting the branch and setting it down against the bodies until they ignite. As the stench of burning bodies fills the air, she pauses for just a moment, feeling the wind in her hair, feeling something tug at her.

The wolves all circle, and she can hear Bran's raven in the distance. All pieces of The North, pieces of her home, of her. Her father's voice is like a bell in the back of her mind, it's ringing unceasing, it's memory unbreakable. Words from the day she let her wolves go, from the day it all started to spiral on down and crumble at the edges, before they knew to look for it. Grief and rage, her ever present companions fill her, press against her sternum and her heart, choking it all out of her. Everything that makes her who she is. Everything that makes her Arya Stark of Winterfell.

You were born in the Long Summer. You have known only the sun and what warmth the North can give. But Winter is truly coming, Arya. And we need to be ready for it. You need to be ready for it. Your sister, your brothers, your home, they are what will guide you through the Winter. That is how it has been, since before The Andals, before the Iron Throne. Starks, and the North, surviving against the cold.

They are a colder people now, hardened by the undoing of their House. She saddles her horse and starts off without a word, and only a glare towards Baelish, who has been gagged, so he can't go off and run his mouth, like some damned fool. She knows that he might know something, and even if he doesn't, she's in no mood to hear him trying to weasel his way out of everything. Nothing he can say will change her mind, she knows, but she doesn't know The Sand Snakes well enough to say the same.

But, judging by how cleanly Lady Nymeria Sand killed those two Knights, they are not women who can be so easily swayed by gilded words. And Arya finds that she can appreciate that, finds that she can respect that. Strength wins in The North, strength keeps them going, and it's not just the strength of the body. Strength of the mind, strength of will, the strength to be able to survive when it's all falling to pieces. These three women, the ones they call The Sand Snakes, are hard women. Strong, too, if Arya had to hazard a guess.

Again, she hears her father's voice. Winter is coming. You, and your sister, are Starks of Winterfell. You have been raised on those words. And when winter comes, and the cold wind blows, we need all the allies we can get. You and your sister cannot be divided. If only he could see what has become of them all, what has become of his two beloved daughters, of his home, the people and the lands he spent so much of his life fighting for. All the same, blood lies between House Martell and House Stark, she knows. And there is so much more to it…more than the Martells know.

She sees Jon's face in her mind's eye, his hard eyes and his cold conviction. Her brother has always seemed unshakeable, unbreakable, and though she knows that it's not true, she also knows it will be impossible to ever fully shake that image of him. An image born of a youth in summer, born of happier times, born from a time that they cannot get back. They have changed, both of them. But that doesn't change her love for him. If anything, it strengthens her and makes her certain beyond measure that she will never let anyone touch him, hurt him, break him, or use him for their own gain.

She glances at Littlefinger, their eyes meeting. There's a knowing glint in his eyes, and she grits her teeth, breathing heavily and forcing herself to look away from him. If he truly knows, she thinks that they can nip it in the bud, but that's only if he dies, and they figure out how the fuck he got a hint of it as well. He showed his cards to Jon and Robb, which means there is more to all, means there is something deeper beneath it all, something that could still undo them. And, beyond all else, if she knows anything, it is that she will not allow this world to destroy them again. Not after everything.

They draw closer to Winterfell. The wolves peel off, and the raven is still there, screeching its tune, Lady and Nymeria a constant shadow behind their horses. They pass through Winter Town, dark eyes on them. The people of the town sneer as they see Littlefinger sitting there, bound and a traitor for all to see. The North does not forgive, does not forget, and they all know what a traitor looks like in these lands. Insults are thrown at him, and she feels darkly satisfied by it.

He deserves pain and he deserves death and an inch of the grief he has caused. These are cold and bitter thoughts, but ones that come from the heart of The North. Come from the blood in her, and the blood of the people who stare at Baelish with fury and a thousand other emotions. And as he looks around at them, she knows he is seeing all that he has done, all that he has sent to ruin…at least in some part. Not fully, doubtless, but enough maybe it will tear him apart.

As they drag him back into Winterfell, into The Great Hall, the gag falls away. He uses the chance well, shouting after Lord Royce, who stands on the side of the hall, watching the proceedings with everyone else. "I am Lord Protector of The Vale!" He shouts as he fights against Arya and Obara's grip on his arms, "I command you to escort me safely back to the Eyrie!"

Lord Royce says only three words in reply, three words enough. "I think not." Baelish's face falls with abject horror, and that is when Arya throws him to his knees before the High Table, where Sansa, Bran, and Robb wait. Their faces are cold, their eyes hard, and at their feet, Summer and Grey Wind sit patiently. Nymeria and Lady pad over to them and join them after a pause, as Arya comes to stand beside Bran and The Sand Snakes fade into the shadows of the crowded room.

She takes a moment to rove her eyes over the crowd. The Lords of The North are here, accompanied by a hard-eyed Lord Royce and some Vale Knights, who watch on with carefully neutral expressions. Howland Reed catches her eye as she looks at them, and she sees a knowing and wary look in them. Robb must have told him of what Baelish might have learned, if that wary and on-edge look is anything to go by. A secret that could break the realm in two.

She glances at Daenerys Targaryen, then. She looks wary, her Dothraki, Southern Swords, and Unsullied Captains accompanying her. The Spider clings to the shadows. Tyrion Lannister and Jorah Mormont have identical looks of dreadful knowledge in their eyes, and Arya knows that they are the only ones of that group who have even an inch of an idea as to what comes next. This is not a custom shared by The South. Ours is the Old Way, her father's voice whispers in the back of her mind, undercut by another voice, saying those six words that doomed them all–Ser Ilyn! Bring me his head!

"Lord Baelish," Sansa–not Robb–says softly, though not gently. Baelish makes a choked noise as he looks at them, looks at her. Arya feels herself straighten in suddenly more acute interest at this all. "You stand accused of murder. You stand accused of treason. How do you answer these charges, my Lord?"

He blinks at her, horror in every inch of his face, like he has no idea as to how this came to pass. And so the wise becomes the fool, she thinks. The silence continues to stretch on and on. And so she says, feeling a smug grin cross her face, "My sister asked you a question."

"Forgive me, my Lady Sansa, but I do not know what I have done!" He says, his voice high and desperate, eyes so wide and wild as he realises just how doomed he is. He thought that they would not see what he was doing, by showing his hand and trying to instil fear of each other in them, sowing doubt against those who must be their allies. "All I have done is serve you!"

Sansa tilts her head at him and scoffs. "Serve, is that what you call it, now? I would hardly call it that. Tell me my lord, which charges are causing such confusion?" She leans back in her chair, her eyes and Lady's both bearing sharply into him. "Let's start with the simplest one: You murdered our aunt, Lysa Arryn. You pushed her through the Moon Door and watched her fall. Do you deny it?"

Littlefinger licks his lips, blood dripping slowly down his face. But still, strength comes back into his voice, somewhat, as he says, "I did it to protect you." Arya can see it forming in his mind, and sees all the ways he is still scheming as to how he can get out of this. But he is a fool. There is no escaping the doom that is coming swiftly for him now, like The Winds of Winter. Tell them The North Remembers. Tell them Winter came for House Frey. She tilts her head at him. And now, House Baelish.

"You did it to take power in The Vale," Sansa corrects him with a shake of her head. Arya can see Lord Royce, standing tall and proud, anger and pain in his eyes. She doesn't have a lot in her for the Aunt who turned against her family and refused to aid them. But she does have something for the woman who had nowhere to go, nothing that was hers, save for the man who would kill her. Sansa continues, her voice growing somehow colder with each word. "Earlier, you conspired to murder Jon Arryn. You gave Lysa Tears of Lys to poison him. Do you deny it?"

"Your aunt was a troubled woman–She imagined enemies everywhere," Littlefinger gasps out, eyes wide and wild. He sends an imploring look around the room. The only man who moves is Tyrion Lannister, who rocks back on his heels and regards him coolly. Littlefinger turns his desperate expression back onto them, then, having found no harbour.

Sansa continues, hands balling into a fist on the table. Lady tenses slightly as she does, and one of the wolves releases a low and guttural growl. "You had Aunt Lysa send a letter to our parents telling them it was the Lannisters who murdered Jon Arryn when, really, it was you. The conflict between the Starks and the Lannisters, it was you who started it. Do you deny it?" Her words are cold and clipped, fury burning bright.

"I know of no such letter!" Littlefinger defends.

Sansa breathes deeply, and when she speaks again, there is fury unlike anything in her voice–fury and pain and the grief of a little girl. "You conspired with Cersei Lannister and Joffrey Baratheon to betray our father, Ned Stark. Thanks to your treachery, he was imprisoned and later executed on false charges of treason. Do you deny it?" Her words are punctuated and sharp, her eyes wide with fury. Robb sits silent and tall, watching carefully in silence that says more for him than any word ever could. Baelish is long gone. And now, he crawls at the walls for a mercy that will not come.

"I deny it!" He shouts, all the same. "None of you were there to see what happened. None of you knows the truth. I have only ever served you, Sansa! Served you and your House, served this realm that we both so love!" He must not have seen Varys, Arya thinks, but it is not The Spider who speaks up.

It's Bran.

"You held a knife to his throat," her little brother says flatly, glancing aside as Varys comes out of the shadows to stare intently at the man on his knees before The Wolves of Winterfell. Baelish somehow grows more pale. "You said to him, 'I did warn you not to trust me.' You have allied yourself with him, in hopes he would die, and my mother would suddenly be a widow for your taking. Doubtless, Lord Varys here can attest to the same story. The blood of Eddard Stark is on your hands–that, and Catelyn Stark's. The woman who you say you love."

Littlefinger makes a pitiful sound at that, looking at Varys in horror as he speaks. "This is very much true. Your father was betrayed by this man. I can attest to this crime." He glances at The Lords of The North, and Arya looks at them too, seeing an expected but still nigh terrifying sight. The Northern Lord's eyes are harsh and cold, with fury and grief in them. She recalls, with a sudden rush, that her father was a good friend to many of them. That many of their kin died in the war that followed his death…a death put into motion by Littlefinger. The North Remembers.

"Lady Sansa," he begs. "I have known you since you were a girl. I've protected you. I have only ever served you, only ever wanted to see you hale and happy."

"Protected me? By selling me to the Boltons?" She says, sounding truly angry now. "You know what Ramsay Bolton did to me. You know how he raped me, how he beat me, how he tried to break me–you know, because you came crawling back to me after I escaped him, escaped to my brother. And you are the one who put me in his hands–how is that hale and happy?! How, Lord Baelish?!" Her voice rises until she is shouting, her voice echoing in the hall.

"If we could speak alone, I can explain everything," he says, desperation in every inch of his voice. Arya hangs her head, ashamed for him and all his foolishness. There is no explaining this, no undoing any of what he has done. He tried to string them along–a whisper of bastardy and blood and all the unknowns, and then of Lyanna Stark, knowing nothing of The North. To what end, she does not know. They will find out, eventually. But now, in this moment, his foolishness, his blindness and all his summery naïvite are coming back to bite him like a wolf.

"Sometimes when I'm trying to understand a person's motives, I play a little game," Sansa says flatly. Littlefinger goes even more pale, and even though Arya does not recognise the words, she can guess where they come from, by that look on his face alone. Sansa had predicted rightly, when she, Arya, and Jon had first spoken of the man. He never could perceive the notion that his own games could be turned against him. And now…

Sansa continues, tilting her head in a manner that reminds Arya of the wolves. "I assume the worst. What's the worst reason you have for turning me against my sister? That's what you do, isn't it? That's what you've always done... turn family against family, turn sister against sister. That's what you did to our mother and Aunt Lysa, and that's what you tried to do to us. You whisper to us, sew trouble, and yet you do not understand. You are not strong enough to break Winterfell. To break us."

Still, in the face of it all, he begs. "Sansa, please."

Sansa just shakes her head. "I'm a slow learner, it's true. But I learn."

And now Baelish is desperate. "Give me a chance to defend myself. I deserve that." None of them moves, and Arya knows he does not miss the look exchanged by Robb and Sansa, silent but clear in what agreement they have reached. Robb, though not the one presiding, is still their king. This blood will be spilt in his name. Littlefinger's voice reaches a fever pitch of desperation. "Sansa, I beg of you! I loved your mother since the time I was a boy!"

"And yet, you betrayed her." Cold as Winter.

"I loved you. More than anyone."

"And yet, you betrayed me." Proud as a wolf.

He breathes heavily and deeply, eyes rushing over the room, searching for something, for anything. Arya feels something dark settle in her as she sees his eyes linger on The Dragon Queen, as he turns back to them, an unhinged smile on his bloody lips as he shouts, with the desperation of a man who is willing to take it all down with him, "I know your secret! I know what you hide from this world! About Lyanna Stark–"

Arya stalks up to him, grabbing him by his collar and cutting him off before he can finish and doom the whole of them. "You are a liar. You spin your tales and weave whatever path suits you best. What does a liar know?" She hisses out from between her clenched teeth, drawing the knife at her side. His eyes widen, mouth hanging open, no sound escaping him as he swallows. She presses her knife to his throat. "My aunt is not yours to speak of. Stay your tongue, and you will not be fed to The Wolves."

He stares up at her, green eyes full of madness. "I know what he is."

"And so, you will die," Arya whispers, dropping him and levying the knife at him. And all his bravado and all his mania fall away, revealing just another man. Valar Morghulis, she thinks. "You told our mother that this knife belonged to Tyrion Lannister. But that was a lie. It was yours. You sent the assassin. You started this war. You killed my mother, the woman you say you loved. You think you know power?" He looks at her in naked terror, mouthing her sister's name, but no noise comes out.

She looks back at her siblings. Sansa stands then, Robb's eyes ever on the proceedings, his crown shadowing his brow, his silence damning. Bran sits in silence too, his eyes shining just that much closer to otherworldly in how they view the world. The wolves are at their feet, tense and ready, eyes on the slaughter that is about to commence. Arya has long since learned that her wolves can sense fear, and she recalls Syrio's words from a lifetime ago. Fear cuts deeper than swords–a lesson Baelish is now learning as he faces what has been coming for him for so long, at last.

"When you brought me back to Winterfell," Sansa says, her voice shaking just a bit, "You said that there is no justice in this world, not unless we make it. But you have no sense of what justice is. Your justice is vengeance against fairly given slights by my House. Brandon Stark cut you, Eddard Stark stole your beloved, and Catelyn Tully-Stark denied you–and for this, you have spelt the death of hundreds of thousands. For a petty act of vengeance against three people who now lie dead. Two because of your hand."

Sansa's smile is cold and cruel, nothing like the summery girl who went South, who the man on his knees before them first met. That, Arya thinks, is his folly. He has never been able to see past the caricatures he's made for everyone. Starks, stubborn fools with too much honour. Sansa, a witless girl who would bend to his will and become his bed partner easily. He did not see the sharp teeth, the narrowed eyes, or the ice in any of them, a mistake he will now pay for.

He thought that he could make Jon and Robb fear him with whispers, that he could rule them. He was a fool to think so, to think that he could destroy them, after all that they have survived. Betrayals and orphaning and the end of the world are in their past. Winter is their future. They will need to figure out how he learned, how this slipped through the net, who overheard and loosened their lips. But first, he must die, here and now, so he cannot cause more pain and suffering to this world.

She takes comfort in the fact that no matter what she does, she will never have as much blood on her hands as this man does. Her eyes meet Sansa's, and her sister nods, her voice cold and clear as she says, "You have taught me much, Lord Baelish. And I thank you for that…for now I can use that to finally bring an end to the suffering that comes from your hands."

Arya inhales deeply, and, right before she goes forward to kill him, she says the words, thinking of her father, the man who died with Littlefinger's help. He who passes the sentence should swing the sword. Her father's words will now kill this man. She can find the poeticness in that, at least. "In the name of Robb, of the House Stark, first of his name, King of Winter, King in the North, Lord of Winterfell, I, Arya of the House Stark, sister to the king, and Princess of Winter and The North, sentence you to die."

"Sansa!" He chokes out as his throat blooms in terrible and awful red. She turns her back on him as he splutters and chokes, coming to the table and turning around just in time for her to watch as he falls to the floor, dead. The blood pools out from under him, staining the cobbles beneath him. They will perhaps never get the blood stain out of those stones, but Arya doesn't think any of them really want to when it comes down to it. The North Remembers.

She roves her eyes over the hall. The Dragon Queen is standing stock still, her face a neutral mask, though that in and of itself betrays her fear. Tyrion Lannister's mismatched eyes are narrowed into thin slits, ever watchful of the Starks of Winterfell who loom silently over the quiet room. The Lords of The North are all grim of face, though Arya can see the glints of righteous glee in their eyes. Lord Royce is not smiling, but he does not look any shade of furious, either.

Robb stands slowly, and the hall somehow gets even quieter, all eyes on The King of The North, The King of Winter, the man whom they called The Young Wolf. Though Southern in colouring, he is a Northman down to the very bone. His hairstyle, his beard, his keen and cold eyes, the furs on his shoulders, the sword at his side, all of it is Northern. And then, of course, there is the crown that glimmers slightly, the light of the fires lit around the room dancing in the metal, across the runes and the swords that are a close replica of the crowns of The Kings of Old.

"Burn Lord Baelish's body," He says softly, voice thickly undercut with the frosted edges of a Northern accent. It does not waver, nor does it sound anything other than cold. Arya glances at The Sand Snakes, killers like her, and sees that they are watching her brother, indeed, all of House Stark, with dark, calculating eyes that betray a sort of grim amusement in them. Robb turns to look at The Lords of The North and Lord Royce. "And find what men remain loyal to him. They will be sharply questioned, so we can see just how far his rot has spread. Then, we cut it out."

The Hall moves into action immediately. Arya runs her thumb over Needle's hilt, watching Baelish's corpse be unceremoniously dragged out. For a man who styled himself with so much importance, he was shockingly mortal, shockingly weak when it all came down to it. He died from one slash of a single blade, died to his own tricks, died with the name of a woman whom he had never understood on his lips. Valar Morghulis, she thinks one more time, before calling Nymeria to her side and stalking away.

—

It's Sansa who finds her, Sansa and Rickon, who is so bright in such a dark world. He's clinging to Sansa as she comes in, and bounds over to Arya the second he sees her, clamouring up beside her on her bed, laying his head in her lap as he begins to talk at a million miles a minute. Smiling fondly, Arya runs her hand through his hair, watching Sansa move silently through her room. Silent like one of the many ghosts that haunt these walls.

"What's wrong?" Arya asks her, tilting her head when her sister pauses in her stroking of the fire Arya started when she got here, inhaling deeply. That is enough of a confirmation of things, in and of itself, but her continued quietness is something else in its entirety. Even Rickon sobers, seemingly noticing the strange cloud that has settled over their older sister, his big blue eyes blinking at her. "Did something happen?"

"Not yet," Sansa says with a shake of her head as she stands. Her voice is soft, almost hoarse. Arya feels her stomach begin to churn. Sansa goes to sit at Arya's oft-neglected desk, skirts swirling around her as she looks out the window, a hard set to her jaw and a troubled look in her eyes. "But it is soon coming, we all know. Baelish may not have said the whole of the truth, but a mention of Aunt Lyanna may be enough. Robb is speaking to Howland Reed, right now, trying to figure out how Baelish figured it out. Figuring out who spilled it."

"Could it be one of The Northern Lords?" Arya asks, which makes Sansa shake her head.

"I'm disinclined to think so. Even if they have reason to want us gone, Littlefinger is an outsider and of little help to them–and besides, it's a foolish endeavour. We have already made it plenty clear what we do to traitors here in The North." Sansa exhales heavily, running a hand over her face. "It's likely some servant, someone who will not be missed if they slip between the cracks. We know Baelish uses spies. Perhaps one of them came upon something, overheard something without anyone knowing."

"I don't think it would be an overheard conversation," Arya says carefully, rubbing Rickon's back with the hand not tangled in his hair. He's clutching at her clothes, and she knows that her little brother is no fool, and can sense just how troubled his big sisters are. Sansa nods along, looking out the window at the falling snow. "But we both know what the only other proof of it is. And if someone found those…it's hard to deny." She recalls the maiden's cloak and the bride's cloak well. And they're far from something that can just be ignored if they were come across by someone.

That thought makes Arya's stomach twist. She's never been blind to the fact that a secret with the magnitude of the one they're fighting to contain is nearly impossible to fully contain. A single discovery could set the pieces in motion, and though she knows Howland Reed has kept all his treasures under lock and key, she also knows well enough from her time in Braavos that it's not going to be enough against the truly determined. So, he'd hidden the chest as well, in the shadows under his bed. Which means that if someone found out through them…not only were they subtle, but they were tipped off. Someone knew to tell them to look.

"We'll never know the full truth," Sansa says, forlornly. Arya gives her a shrewd look, and she purses her lips, eyes hardening. "Not that I would take back his execution–he was long overdue for justice, and I'm glad that he got it. It's just… there are things I wish we could have asked, asked where no other ears could hear. But with The Sand Snakes getting involved as they did, it seemed much harder to justify." Sansa's lips pull into a frown. "Their eagerness to join you troubles me, as well."

"They were genial enough," Arya says, refusing to look at Rickon as she continues. "There are very few women like them or me in this world, and I don't doubt some of it was born of interest. I hear that rumour is spreading of all of us, and of all those that The Dragon Queen brought North, they seem the most likely to be interested in me. But…I see what you mean. Perhaps it was simply a request from The Dragon Queen, or even the Prince of Dorne, to get a better read of House Stark."

"After all," Arya continues, "We have been central to so much, and our tale is strange. Daughters either imprisoned or missing, and then both of them missing and known to no one. Brothers thought dead, betrayed, or put in chains. All of us have a Direwolf in our shadow as with tens of unanswered questions. Didn't Bran say that The Dragon Queen asked him about how Jon escaped his vows?" Sansa nods, rubbing the bridge of her nose with a shaky exhale.

"And what Baelish said will only make the questions multiply," she says darkly, her eyes narrowed into thin slits. "Perhaps that is why he made such a gamble. Either, he puts us in a noose of his making, and we're beholden to him so we can ensure his silence stays, or he gets the chance to spill before the end, when we take reasonable action and–" she doesn't finish, gesturing broadly.

"Good thing, then, that Jon decided to turn tail the second The Dragon Queen got here," Arya murmurs. Sansa snorts, though, as she cradles her face in hand and glares up at the falling snow outside Arya's window, she looks far from amused. It is a good thing, though, Arya is certain, though Jon will certainly be sad to have missed the final minutes of Littlefinger's existence. He's never really liked the man, after all, and Arya knows that he was just waiting for an excuse to let some anger out on him. But all the same, he'll probably be glad that one of them swung the sword.

"Is Jon okay?" Rickon suddenly perks up, sitting up and wrapping his arms around Arya's waist, blinking up at her imploringly. She hopes he cannot feel her shaky inhale as she wraps her arms around his thin shoulders, drawing him that much closer so she can kiss the top of his head. He says, "I miss him. Why did he have to go?"

Arya looks to Sansa for guidance. She's one of the older kids, really, and always has been. Arya may be the oldest of her parent's youngest children, but that doesn't mean that she too doesn't need the comfort of an older sibling. Sansa stands quickly, coming over to them and crouching before them, offering a hand. Rickon frees one of his arms from around Arya's waist, resting his hand in Sansa's. She squeezes gently as Rickon tightens his grip on the back of Arya's shirt, and she holds him just a little closer as he does.

"Jon is trying to figure out his own things, right now," Sansa says gently, brushing Rickon's hair away from his face with her free hand. Her eyes flick briefly to Arya's, and in the mere heartbeat where they meet, she feels a silent understanding pass between them. "Our brother feels like he has a lot of responsibilities to a lot of different people–and he does. This is one of them. Our Uncle Benjen needs help, and Jon wants to do so. He's okay though. He will be home before you know it."

With the Army of The Dead on his heels, Arya thinks grimly, but she does not voice the thought, knowing better than to do so. Admitting just how close their doom is to them now, how soon The Long Night will be upon them is a terrifying and entirely unwelcome thought. Sometimes, Arya closes her eyes and she thinks she sees it, thinks she sees a thousand blue eyes staring at her, beyond the gods and beyond her power. The blade at her side grows heavy, and she forces herself to think of what Syrio said. What do we say to the God of Death? Not Today.

She can see the same thoughts in her sister's eyes as she looks so gently at little Rickon, who stares at her with his own love and interest. He's hardly left any of their sides when not in his lessons, and Arya cannot deny she likes her little shadow. Sometimes, he'll come up to her in the yard, and she'll show him what she's doing, help him shoot arrows, and adjust his form as she does. He doesn't have many memories of her, but she will make new memories of her for him, if it is the last thing she does, using what she recalls of her older brothers and Bran, when he was even younger than Rickon is now.

He's sweeter than this world has allowed him to be. Wolfish, yes, with a hard-to-tame wild streak, but sweet and young and kind all the same.

"I wish he didn't have to go," Rickon whispers softly, looking close to tears. His lip is trembling, and she can feel how her little brother shakes as he blurts out, "Everyone always leaves!" And then he is crying, hiding his face in Arya's side as he clings to her, making sad noises that tear her in two. Arya looks at her sister and sees pain and grief in her eyes, tears in the corners. They can't undo all the hurts that Rickon has, all the memories he has of everyone leaving.

"We're not leaving any time soon, Rickon," Sansa says, grabbing his hand again and looking at him imploringly. Rickon turns to look at her, still pressed to Arya's side like a leech, but she'd have an overgrown leech of a brother any day, if it meant he's home and safe with her. "We are Starks. The Lone Wolf dies, but The Pack survives, and we are together again. Jon will come home, I swear to you. He will come home, and you will see a hundred summers. You will be all you have ever wanted to be and more."

"We're your sisters," Arya reminds him, feeling her heart stutter in her chest when he turns his big blue eyes onto her. "And Robb, Bran, and Jon are your brothers. It's our job to protect you, to look after you. Winter is Coming, Rickon. A long time ago, our father told Sansa and me that when Winter came for us, our best hope was one another. He said we could not be divided. And that holds true, especially now. We are one another's best hopes. We are The Starks of Winterfell. The North needs us. All of us. You understand?"

"You promise you won't leave?" He asks–and Arya knows as well as Sansa the danger of promises. Their eyes meet, blue and grey, and she can see her pain reflected back at her in her sister's eyes. Joffrey had promised, had he not? Promised mercy. Ser Ilyn! Bring me his head! What are promises to people like them, to this world? She knows better than to trust fully in them…but all the same, Rickon isn't like them. He's kept at least some scrap of his innocence, some part of his youth. They'd be terrible sisters if they broke that for him.

"Of course," Sansa says in reply, her eyes hard and sure. "As long as I draw breath, you will be safe, and one of us will be with you, should you need it. And even when you are older and off in the world, we will only be one word away. We are Starks. Nothing in this world can tear us apart again, because I will not let it happen. And I can assure you that it is much the same for all of us–Jon and Robb and Arya and Bran." Rickon looks up at her, smiling shyly when she nods at him.

Oh, how she loves her sweet little brother. Her brother who has been shown the hardship of this world, but somehow managed to maintain his innocence by the skin of his teeth. Some of it has faded, she knows, for he has known betrayals too, but still, he is still a boy who has a chance to be so. That is not a luxury they were afforded. He's almost the age Sansa was when their father died, and she's older than Jon or Robb were, back then. Same with Arya.

She doesn't know quite how long they stay there, held close, matching breaths, but it's long enough that when Robb comes knocking with a look on his face that spells trouble, she feels herself chafe at the thought of losing this brief heartbeat of peace. Glancing down at Rickon, who somehow ended up with his head in her lap, eyes looking up at her, she sees her little brother is just as off put by it, clearly aware that they'll be swept away into things that he can't follow them to once again–she doesn't think Rickon is that big of a fan of anything that's going on right now, not that she can blame him.

"What is it?" Sansa asks in a strained voice, her eyes sharp and narrow. Robb inhales deeply, brows pinching together. He glances back once at the open doorway, and Arya sees his throat bob, a decision settling over him after a moment. He closes the door with a click, walking over to them and kneeling down before Arya and Bran, beside where Sansa has made herself comfortable on the floor next to Arya's bed.

This close, Arya can see the weariness in her brother's face, see clearly how the events of the day have weighed on him. She thinks she knows what's coming for them already, for the thoughts of the trouble that Littlefinger sewed in his last breaths is an omnipresent shadow in the back of her mind, a weight that she cannot shake. Sighing, Robb looks away and says, in a cold and wary voice, "Tyrion Lannister and The Dragon Queen have some questions, as do many of the Southern Lords. We're meeting in an hour."

"Which gives us barely enough time to figure out what to say," Sansa surmises in a flat voice, her expression darkening when Robb nods. She gets to her feet then, brushing dirt from her dress and straightening it before she begins to pace, like a wolf caught in a cage. A rather astute comparison, Arya would reckon, given the corner that The Dragon Queen and her entourage have just backed them into, unknowingly or not. Though, given all that Arya has ever heard of Tyrion Lannister, she doubts that there was little accident in this. The cards are passing between hands too fast to see, now.

"Protecting Jon is our priority," Robb says in a measured tone as he loosens one of his gloves slightly in an absent-minded motion. "I don't know how Daenerys will take it, never mind any of those Southern Lords. Varys especially–his loyalty is hard to discern, in any way. He served Joffrey well enough for a good while, and now he serves The Dragon Queen. What's to say he won't suddenly jump ship to Jon if he thinks our brother is the better candidate?"

Arya feels a shudder run through her. Jon would be torn apart by the Lord of The South, picked apart like wolves at the slaughter. Allowing anyone to know, allowing anyone to think that they can catch Jon in their webs, and allowing anyone to do just that will kill Jon, before the end, she knows. She's spent long enough worrying for her House, for the lives of her family, and all she knows is that she would sooner freeze The South out, damn them to Winter and unrelenting death than let them steal her brother and strip him of all that makes him Jon. That much, at the very least, is clear as day.

"You're the one who's spent the most time with The Dragon Queen," Sansa says with a pointed look that makes Robb duck his head in apparent shame. Sansa had spilt about that piece very soon after learning of it to Arya, and she can hardly wrap her head around the whole thing, still. The thought of how Jon will react to that though, is entirely hilarious. At Jon's expense, of course, but some things never change when it comes to siblings, for better or for worse. Sansa arcs a brow at their brother. "What do you think her reaction will be?"

Robb is quiet for a long moment, his eyes narrowed and guarded. "She has never quite let go of the thought that I, as King in The North, am in open rebellion against her, nor has she seemed to grasp that because she does not hold The Iron Throne, merely claims it, it changes the very nature of what lies between us. The ground is fraught, and the rope we walk teeters with the smallest pressure, yes, but she does not hold The Iron Throne. I have as much right to Kingship, perhaps even more, as she does. I do not think she can really wrap her head around that, despite all that I have ever said to it."

Arya and Sansa furrow their brows at him, exchanging a look. Noticing this, he continues, "She doesn't hold The Iron Throne, and yet, she calls herself Queen of The Seven Kingdoms. Even ignoring the fact that The Seven Kingdoms haven't existed from the moment father's head was cleaved from his neck, she has nothing to really back that up–not that I'm saying Cersei does, either." He tacks the last part on when Sansa sends him another, much sharper, look.

Clearing his throat, he runs his hand over his face. "No one has reminded her that The Targaryens were deposed and that they were removed from rulership. Her claims mean nothing because Westeros rejected them. The House of The Dragon was ousted from power, and what claim might have belonged to her doesn't exist. She is coming to these lands as Aegon did–as a Conqueror. Which…whatever. But the board has shifted from that, too. The North is…"

He trails off, but Arya can guess what he is getting at. The North is not as it was when Aegon came to get a bent knee out of Torrhen Stark or turn Fire and Blood onto him. There is a young King on the throne, and The Wolf's Blood has never run hotter. The Wall and the whole of the world hang on the edge, and the people are desperate in a way that means that the only thing that has the power to bind them is the power of a Winter King. The North, on a level that goes beyond any Southern conceptions, cannot accept a foreign Queen, not when all is as it is. It all comes back to Northern notions and lifeblood, something that no Southerner will ever truly grasp.

Robert certainly didn't. Because if he did, he would have left Eddard Stark, the man he called his best friend, where he belonged– In The North. Starks who go South die, or so the past twenty or so years have proven. If Robert Baraethon knew what was good for Rhe Realm, good for the man whom he called his best friend and gave orders to him that he could not refuse all the same, he would have left the wolves alone, left them to lick their wounds and turn their eyes North. Who knows how many would have lived, if that had happened.

Sansa suddenly pauses in her pacing, her face dawning with some realisation. "You said…Daenerys has no real claim, right?" Robb nods, and a wicked grin crosses their sister's face, which makes Arya exchange a glance with her brother. Sansa is so changed from the girl she was…not that Arya is complaining. Many underestimated her, and missed the teeth and claws beneath the silk and jewels. "Then neither does Jon. He isn't a threat to her, because he has no claim, in any sense. Not in her Conquering, not in any dynasty that has held The Throne. He's not a Baratheon. He's not a Lannister. And House Targaryen is not The Ruling House. That's our defence if it blows up in our face."

Robb's face splits into a wild grin, but Arya feels another thought sweep over her. He's not a Baratheon… Robert had many bastards. One whom Arya has asked to be brought North. In her lap, Rickon sits up so he can lean against her side, squeezing her hand, clearly having sensed her sudden discontent. Her voice is thin as she says, "The Baratheon blood did not die with Stannis, though. There are still his bastards–one of which is coming to Winterfell now, with good luck on Ser Davos's part, that is."

"Your friend, Gendry," Sansa fills in, and Arya nods. Her sister hums in contemplation, her eyes sharp and running wild with thoughts. After a long moment, she says, "Speak to him when he arrives, Arya. Tell him of The Dragon Queen, and the threat he poses to her, but not of Jon. There is no need for that. Just tell him to keep his head low and do his best to stay out of her way. I would rather not see your friend die for his father's many mistakes." She laughs grimly, and Arya knows they're all thinking of the King when they first saw him, a man long past his glory days.

"But, for today, we just do our best to work around it," Robb says, eyes fixed to the floor with an intense look that is only added to by the crown on his brow. It is still a little strange, Arya thinks, to see her older brother wearing a crown, but she hasn't missed all the double takes he has nearly every time he sees Sansa, Bran, Rickon, and her, and all the ways they've grown up since he last saw her. They were all of them children when he saw them, and now, most of them are grown, and Rickon is older in his own ways, too, no longer a toddler. They're all strangers, in some part, now, strangers who are relearning one another all over again.

"We press the idea that Baelish was lying, trying to sow doubt. Mention how Aunt Lyanna is a sore spot for many Northmen, especially against her House, and that he likely brought her up in a final attempt to tear us apart–because that's what he does. That's how he plays his game." Robb worries his lower lip between his teeth. "And avoid mentioning Jon as much as possible. Ser Barristan is in her company, and he recalls The Rebellion well. If anyone will put it together, it will doubtless be him. He is a noble man, yes, but his loyalty is not here."

"But he's also smart enough to know the weight of it, no?" Sansa replies, her face troubled. "You speak truly Robb, that he remembers The Rebellion, I do not doubt it. And that means he remembers Robert, remembers Elia Martell and her babes, remembers our Father. He would know, better than anyone else in her company, the true weight of this all. That has to count for something, no?"

"I am not putting all my hope in it," Robb says. "Though, you may be right. But I do not know him well enough to trust that he will keep his mouth shut when the pieces draw together. The Northern Lords have kept quiet because they love Lyanna, because they have ridden for her before, because they would have burned the whole of The South down for her–because Jon is her blood. I do not hope that is not what guides Ser Barristan."

They all lapse into silence, thinking of their aunt, the doomed She-Wolf of Winterfell. Wild and reckless and free as the wind, and beautiful besides, Lyanna was at the very heart of The North. Robb is not wrong to say that The North would have utterly destroyed The South if it meant her safety. Lyanna was the rare sort of woman who had people riding for her, because they loved her, because they loved her House, not just because it was what duty demanded. Arya knows that Jon, as her son, is afforded that same protection. There is comfort, at least, in the fact that The North will bleed for Lyanna Stark's only living son if that is what it comes down to.

The North Remembers, they say, and The North has not forgotten Lyanna Stark.

And that is what swirls in her mind as she sits in the shadows of the meeting room, watching Tyrion Lannister as he tries to break down the secret he seems to be well aware of, to little avail. The one they call The Imp is a clever one, Arya will easily and readily admit, but what is cleverness when your opponent is a man who very well may be a Wall, like Robb is? All his cleverness seems to break against The Walls of The North, fall apart as he finds no harbour in these frozen-over waters.

She doesn't think he understands the real reason everyone is staying silent. The Lords of The North know the truth and know it all comes back to beloved Lyanna, dead Lyanna. Lyanna who was killed by The South, killed by The Targaryens and the war they reaped, by the House he serves. That is a damnation in and of itself, a crime that The North will not forgive. Jon is forgiven because he is a Northern man, because he was raised in Winterfell, and because he is Lyanna Stark's only living son. He is all that is left of her.

"I do not doubt that Lord Baelish is a born liar," Tyrion says in a thin voice, taking a generous sip of his wine as he pins Robb down with his mismatched eyes, his weight heavy as a thousand stones. Robb, who sits in a chair, crown on his head, sharp as any real sword, his eyes like twin shards of ice, looks impossibly more fearsome, which is saying something, for Arya cannot deny that Tyrion Lannister is very much making up for his height in his countenance. "And yet, I think we all know better than to dismiss everything. The best lies are born of some truth."

"Aye, and that is something you know well, Lannister," Robb replies, voice clipped and short, crawling near to a growl as he says Tyrion's house name. Tyrion inhales deeply, eyes brimming with frustration as Robb continues. "And I will repeat again that this is no business of yours if there is anything there in the first place. The private matters of The North are not yours to know." Robb's lip curls backwards, eyes flickering over the company of Southerners and men from Essos alike. "The North owes you no explanation."

"The North is a part of this fight," Tyrion says, voice tightening even more, his voice a little less collected. "Indeed, they are the ones who dragged us here. We did not owe you anything, and now we have come here on our own will. I would say that is a debt, no?"

The room goes silent. Arya's hand drifts slowly to Needle, sitting at her side, her eyes on Robb and the wolves, who are sitting silently. The Northern Lords are gaping at Tyrion Lannister, cold fury seeping slowly into their faces. At least Tyrion seems to realise his mistake, palling slightly after a moment and staring at Robb, waiting for a reply. Silently, Ser Barristan Selmy's hand rests itself on the pommel of his sword. Daenerys Targaryen stands still. And then–

"Do I need to remind you what Rhaegar Targaryen did to Lyanna Stark?" Robb snarls, standing suddenly, his temper slipping in the space of only a breath. "Do I need to remind you what Joffrey did to my father? Do I need to remind you once again of how the Mad King burned Rickard Stark-The Lord of Winterfell and The Warden of The North–while his son Brandon choked himself to death in a fruitless effort to reach him? Or should I remind you of how your father murdered my mother, my wife, and my unborn child before my eyes?"

Robb is nearly screaming, and Grey Wind's snarls fill the room. But silence falls as his words cut off, and all eyes are on him as his shoulders shake with fury and barely held back emotions. For a long moment, no one moves, no one speaks. It is Robb who breaks the silence again, his voice barely louder than a whisper as he says, "There is nothing owed to The South by The North. We owe nothing to the Houses that have destroyed us. I could have gone North, but I didn't, because I knew that you weren't a fucking fool and that our best way to survival was acting together."

"But if you ever look me in my eyes again and say in these walls that The North owes anyone–least of all, you–anything, after everything that has been taken from us, I will have your head, Tyrion Lannister. And to you, Daenerys Targaryen," he slants his eyes to The Dragon Queen, who has been unsettlingly silent this whole time. She stands still, her eyes betraying her growing anger, but she says nothing still.

"Here is my warning to you. You can burn The North, make it Fire and Blood, if you so please. And then you shall die. The North Remembers and Winter is Coming. You cannot beat it without Winterfell, without House Stark. You will fall to The Dead, and you will realise that The North cannot be won by those not of it, it can only be destroyed in a pyrrhic victory."

"Is that so?" She finally says, in a clipped and measured tone. "Why can I not beat The Dead without you? I am the one with Three Dragons. I am of The Blood of Old Valyria. One of the only substances that can kill a White Walker was made by my people. I would dare say that you cannot win without me."

"Sure–I can't win without your numbers, and perhaps your dragons," Robb corrects, mouth twisting into a gruesome sneer. "But The Blood of Old Valyria means nothing to the nature of this fight. My brother Bran has seen how this all began in a vision. The Night King was a Stark, once, before our House and our crown was ever forged. It was a Stark who brought the dawn the first time, banishing the Night King and binding that banishment to The Gods with his blood. The same blood in my veins. Not yours."

From my blood shall come The Prince that was Promised, and his shall be a Song of Ice and Fire. The words echo in the back of Arya's mind, the vision that Robb had seen. The blood of Aegon The Conqueror lies in two people in this world–Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow. And only one of them has the blood of Brandon The Builder, too, and that is Jon Snow. Arya does not believe in prophecies, and cares nothing for Promised Princes. But there is only one man who holds both. She recalls what Bran said about Brandon The Builder's solemn oath at the base of The Heart Tree that lies in these walls. Let the blood I spill here be forever remembered by these woods.

"And you did not think to share this before," she counters, her eyes sharp and wary.

Robb breathes deeply for a moment, shoulders relaxing slightly. He smiles tightly at her, eyes bright with silent warning. "This was only yesterday, and we've had other, far more pressing matters to attend to. I know this is not the answer you want, and that it is not easy to be reminded of what lies between our Houses. But if you ever want to call yourself a Queen, you better fucking start trying to understand why no one in The North trusts your fucking Southerners anymore."

Daenerys Targaryen straightens at that, her strange eyes regarding Robb warily. And Arya can sense, without so much as a word said to it, that the scales are teetering, and things have shifted drastically, not necessarily in the lines of peace or in Daenerys Targaryen's vision of how this all would go. Good, Arya thinks viciously. Let her realise how stiff our necks are, let her see that we will no longer bend so easily. Let her expend herself for this cause, let herself fight to deserve it. And let her see the pain and the power of Winterfell.

"You asked me once when my faith in The South was broken," Robb says, grief seeping into his voice, softening him ever so slightly. Arya glances at Sansa, who sits silently beside Robb, and she knows her sister knows as well as she does what he is about to speak of. Tell them The North Remembers. Tell them that Winter came for House Frey. "And I hold to my answer. The Red Wedding has been avenged by The North, but that does not mean the ache has faded. It is still raw."

"By The North?" Tyrion Lannister asks carefully, and the room pauses. Arya goes still herself, exchanging a brief glance with Robb, who nods. Tyrion frowns, clearly having tracked the motion, and she does not doubt that something is drawing together. And Arya does not fear the truth, does not fear this reveal, for she does not care what The South thinks of her. Indeed, it is perhaps better to be feared by them than to be run over by them. So that is why she steps forward.

She watches Sansa breathe deeply and carefully, preparing for what comes next. They are showing quite the card after all. But that is Sansa and Robb's headache, not Arya's. Her siblings do not hate her for the blood on her hands, in fact, they might love her more for the vengeance she has reaped. And Brynden, who is watching her with an approving look in his eyes from the edge of the table, he had never asked how, and never needed to ask why. They want her, despite the blood on her hands. And so she says–

"Indeed. By The North." She smiles. "Or perhaps, more accurately, by me."

Again, the room is shocked into silence. All The Southerners look at her in near fear, and in contrast, The Northern Lords are slowly smiling with feral lights in their eyes, wild and reckless. Arya roves her eyes over them, meets their eyes and dares them to say anything, dares them to try and protest her. But all they do is gape at her, and so, she lets her smile sharpen until she knows she looks particularly wolfish. In the corner of the room, Sandor Clegane smiles.

"I slit Walder Frey's throat, just like he slit my mother's. I poisoned the men, and left The Twins to ruin." She draws closer and leans forward. "Should I tell you of what else I have done? How I murdered some soldiers with The Hound, men who were making fun of my mother? I stole his knife and butchered them. Meryn Trant too–for all that he did against my Household. They were on my list..and so is your sister, Lord Lannister. Tell me, what do you think I want to do to her, given all I have done to everyone else who has harmed the people I love?"

"Kill her," Tyrion says softly.

"Yes," Arya agrees. "Your House stole everything from me. My innocence, my father, my mother, and for many years, all my family. Your House made me into what I am today. The North Remembers, Lord Lannister, and let me be the one to warn you that there is nothing for you here but the cold, should you hurtle down this path and pick at wounds. Lyanna Stark is still an open wound to many, and I can assure you that there are many who would see her avenged, see my father avenged, to the cost of House Lannister and House Stark alike."

The Dragon Queen's Unsullied captain tenses at that, but the woman raises a hand to stop him. She says, "Why admit this? What game are you playing?"

"No game," Arya says, tilting her chin up as she regards her. "It is a warning, one I suggest you heed. The world has changed. Winter is Coming. We are not a House that will be so easily run over, not anymore, not after all we have learned. So, all I will say is that it is sometimes best to stop while you are ahead. There is nothing for you here but the chance that you will open too many wounds and doom us all. Many say that Lyanna Stark is still yet to be avenged. Do not make yourself the one who makes The North take that justice."

—

"I need to get drunk."

Arya glances over at Robb, who is lying over his bed, Rickon at his side, reading something or another, and adding commentary every so often. Sansa and Bran, who are sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace while Sansa explains the meeting he'd missed because he was off being a raven in the Godswood, pause in their murmurings to look blankly at him. Arya just sighs and continues rifling through his papers.

"Next time," Robb says with a grunt as Rickon adjusts against him, seemingly hitting in the side as he does, "Someone offers me a crown, make me say no. And the next time a Targaryen with three dragons rolls up, firstly tell me not to get drunk in her presence and accidentally hook up with her, but also to run the fuck away."

"Language," Sansa says flatly, with all the tiredness of someone who knows that they are fighting a losing battle.

Right at the same time, Arya says, without even so much as a look at her oldest brother, "How do you accidentally hook up with someone?" Robb groans in apparent misery, and she takes that moment to turn fully to him, and say, with a snort, "And you're saying that like you can deny the Lords–never mind Jon. When he gets back–he and Theon both–they're both gonna tell you you're being dramatic, I bet."

"I appreciate the thought that Jon will exhibit self-control and that Theon will return home alive, as a result," Robb says with a groan, running his hands over his face. Gently, he pushes Rickon away a bit so he can sit up. Rickon makes his protests but is quickly satiated as Robb settles him back against his side, staring at his other three siblings with a wild look.

Like this, he doesn't look as terrifying anymore. His hair is a bit of a mess, and his sleep clothes are a bit rumpled, and he has no crown to denote his status. Grey Wind, who is asleep on the free half of his bed, would normally make him that much scarier, but his wolf is softly snoring, so he's not really all that terrifying right now. He just looks like Arya's exhausted older brother, who is carrying so much on his shoulders. Pressure from The South, the rule of The North, the truth of Jon, and the impact of the bombshell Arya dropped earlier.

She doesn't regret it, no, and she knows that sentiment exists in the rest of her siblings, as well. Their father did not rule The North with fear, and neither will they, not in the way that they so easily could. The Starks, though they have always ruled their lands well, were not always seen as harmless Northmen with backwards ways. Once, they were feared for all that they were, for their cold eyes and merciless judgement. There is a way, Arya knows, to be loved by your people and feared by your enemies. A way that they are not fighting to find. And this is part of that. The truth of the end of House Frey.

They don't know all of it, either. They don't know what she is, where she is, what she knows how to do. And they won't, not until they maybe need to, and even then, Arya cannot imagine why they would ever need to know. Some things are best left unanswered and unknown, and she knows she has struck enough fear into The Southerners in Winterfell and respect amongst The Northmen that she will go unquestioned. She has made her point clear, and all she has left to do is fight.

"We've shown our hand," Sansa says, her voice taking on a softer, warier edge. "They know more of us now, and will not soon miss the walls we put up around Lyanna. We all know that this cannot hold forever. Someone learned how this came about somehow. Someone put the pieces together. We all know that our priority is Jon, and if we have any hope of keeping him safe, we have to act. We have to tighten the walls, and root out those who might destroy us."

"I have spoken a little to Howland Reed about it," Robb says, his hand resting on Rickon's knee, picking absentmindedly at the threads of his pants. "He's going to try and figure out what happened, he and his daughter. The Greatjon and Maege offered their own help, once I told them what was going on, that is. But at the end of the day, all of this lies in Jon. I've written to The Wall to let him know what happened, but it will reach Benjen before him. I don't doubt our Uncle will tell him, but all the same, we can't spill this for him."

"Brynden can also help," Arya pipes up. "It was him who first suggested Jon vie for Prince of Dragonstone–not that Jon was in any mood to listen." They all snicker slightly at that, all too aware of Jon and all the ways he avoids that which is most inconvenient to him. He's never been one to really face the music. He's always been one to fight, to lead, to find a way to work around it but never dive into it. She loves him for it. It makes her worry beyond any comprehension for him.

"We all know that The Dragon Queen might demand something of him, something of all of us, things that we don't want. And the only way we can make it work is if we have a plan, and everyone who can help us is on the same page." Arya sighs heavily, glancing out the window, at the setting sun. "And only if Jon can come to accept it."

Her words hang in the air, heavy and dark. They all know why Jon ran, and none of them disparage him for it, but all the same…she knows her brother, and she knows he is afraid. Afraid of what it means, what he is, who he has always been and how that might just upend everything he's been using to tether himself to the world since it crashed and burned with six words. Ser Ilyn! Bring me his head! And she knows what fear does to people. Fear cuts deeper than swords.

"I don't want to lose him," she suddenly says, and she hears how Sansa's breath hitches, how Robb tenses, how Bran shifts, and how even Rickon seems to still at the thought that they haven't dared to put to words. She can feel tears in the back of her throat. Jon was her tether, in the darkest hours. Jon, his smile, and Needle, and the memories of their last goodbye. She sits in Robb's chair and brings a leg up to her chest, looking out the window as she continues, unable to look any of her siblings in the eyes. "What right does The South have to him? Why should The Dragon Queen get to make any choice for or about him? He's his own man. We're our own people, too."

"They've taken everything from us before, or tried to. Mother and Father and Jory and even Nymeria and Lady, for a time." Arya glances at Sansa, and remembers that day, all those many long years ago, when they were younger and stupider and the wolves were gone. She rubs her eyes as tears prickle, her voice thick and her resolve unravelling. "They shouldn't get to take him from us too. Jon hasn't hurt any of them, hasn't done anything that should make him…that should demand he die or pay lip service to her. He's not theirs to have!"

And he's not ours, either, a dark voice whispers in the back of her mind. Some part of Jon was left behind on The Wall, was stolen from them all by the Mutineers. She'd kill them if she could. Burn them out and make them beg for mercy before the end for the crime of taking her big brother from her. She'll never get her vengeance. Jon will never get himself back. And their uncle, who held him as he died, who ran so many years ago from these haunted halls, will never escape the Ghosts.

What a House they make! A bunch of lonely children and a man who has no siblings and nowhere left to go to escape the pain of it all. She thinks of her Uncle Benjen with a fierce surge of anger. She can hardly imagine what he'd have done had Tyrion Lannister dared to suggest a debt to him, to the man who saw all his family murdered by The South, with him always unable to do much of anything about it. He's twice as haunted as they are.

"He's not," Bran agrees, finally speaking up. All of them turn their eyes to him, and it's like he's a beacon. She doesn't fully… get everything with Bran, but she knows her little brother by sight alone and knows that he's there, that he's home, and that all that matters is those simple facts. Facts are easy, and the fact of the matter is that Bran is her little brother, and that means everything, at the end of the day. "And he will need all of us, when it comes to us. We'll all need each other."

"The Lone Wolf dies," Rickon murmurs softly, and Arya knows that he has no idea how exactly that makes any of them feel. She has a sense of it, though. It feels like an arrow's just been shot through her heart, leaving a hole in the shape of everything she's lost behind. The words of their father, in the mouth of the brother who hardly remembers him because he was but a little boy when they stole him from Rickon, stole all the chances he'll never get again from his young hands.

"But The Pack survives," They all echo in tandem, and her heartbeat seems to settle to the beats of those words. All she knows for certain are the adages of her House, are the things that their father passed onto them, as those of their House have been doing since Brandon the Builder plunged his sword of Ice into the heart of the monster his brother had become, apologies and pleas for forgiveness on his lips. They are an old House. Older than the Dawn, in some tellings. As old as Winter and the deep roots of this world.

It all rattles in her head. Winter is Coming. The North Remembers. The Lone Wolf dies, but The Pack survives. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. All, if Bran is to be believed, are born from the same man, from the first King of them all, the man who banished his brother and bled for all the generations to come. It didn't last forever, no. But it lasted long enough, and the trial has fallen upon their shoulders, and no amount of barter will change that, when it all comes down to the line, when everything is laid out and The Dead are here.

The North is a solitary giant, something beyond most other places and peoples in this vast world. The North are not understood by so many, for it is all innate to them, really. They are an old and proud people, people who worship gods with no answers, who see the past and the future, who are one with the creatures, whose gods weep forever. They are superstitious. They have long and bitter memories and trust little in strangers. The Conquest hardly changed much, beyond making The King a Lord and Warden. The fabric did not change. It was just…twisted. And now it is straightening out again.

They don't need Daenerys Targaryen to understand them, and all they really need from her is her armies. And as much as she wants them, as much as she makes whatever demands suits her, as much as she presses and budges, Arya knows she will learn the crucial truth eventually: The North is not hers. The North belongs to no one but The Northmen. And she is a guest here. Winterfell belongs to The Wolves.

Not The Dragons.

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and now we are officially caught up with ao3! (thank god lol) next chapter tommorow and then well be on ao3's sched which is every one to two weeks :)

notes:

-HALFWAY THROUGH YOU GUYS AND WHAT A CHAPTER THIS IS TO MARK THE OCCASION.

-a lot of this chapter uses dialogue from the show, I know, but I couldn't help myself because I do truly really like those moments, despite a lot of other issues with general plotlines, lol. I just hope that it feels fresh enough that its still fun-subtle warging and subtle connections between the kids and the wolves my BELOVED

-fuck you little finger, honestly. Though he is dead, I think all of you can see what he's just done by mentioning lyanna, even without further context. But it wouldn't be lf if he wasn't fucking everything up for literally everyone, would it?

-I know I am incessant in my repetition of Lyanna's importance in this all, but I HAVE to. It contextualises all of this, and it is a part of the next chapter, as Dany comes to understand what northern independence is really coming from. Lyanna is an almost mythic figure to the north, and they will never let someone take her blood away from them again…and anyone who tries will face the winds of winter.

-I know a lot of dany fans really love the idea of her being tptwp and I GET IT. I really do, and just bc I'm very much going away from that doesn't mean she isn't really important. But I also feel like it's really important that *Jon* is the one who fulfils the ice and fire parts, and that he is half stark. Just because the blood comes from aegon doesn't mean that it's his blood that matters, if you get me. Idk. Ig what im trying to say is that if you have a differing opinion, please don't yell at me bc of it :))

-open threats! What fun! But honestly, it needs to be said. It's deffo suspicious that they're so stressed about lyanna, and all the decisions made at the end are very alarming, but…we'll unpack the impact of all that next time, lol. But honestly my thought with everything said there (confessions and poorly worded power plays alike) is that everyone is frazzled by the day, for a litany of reasons, and no one is thinking straight for just as many reasons. I hope this makes sense but I am willing to explain myself more if anyone wants

-one of my big pet peeves w/ s8 dany is her entitlement in winterfell. I do get the whole 'the north owes her' thing somewhat with the wight hunt, but that doesn't mean that she gets to waltz around wf like she owns the place. that place is older than her bloodline. It's older than *valyria*. She should not be walking around there like she was and the fact that she did and ppl complained that Sansa got pissed about it is just absurd on so many levels 😭😭

Next up, Dany asks some crucial questions