In the heart of the Wolfswood, the She-Wolf, along with her three litter-mates. crouched among the dense undergrowth. Her litter-mates for this hunt were - The Grey Brother, the embodiment of the changing seasons; The White Brother, the albino spectre; and The Wild Brother, the living abyss.
The dark green forest stirred with life as they navigated the silent dance of the hunt. The She-Wolf, feeling the rhythm of her own heartbeat, moved with purpose through the undergrowth. Her own eyes, pools of liquid gold, glistened with the thrill of the chase, scanning the horizon for their prey. The wolfswood, alive with the sound of rustling leaves, bore witness to the primal spectacle.
The Grey Brother, with fur reminiscent of moonlit mist, led the pack through the ancient trees. His golden eyes, remained fixed on the distant silhouette of a deer grazing in the glade. Instinctively, they knew this was their target, and the pack moved in tandem.
As they closed in, The Wild Brother provided a masterful display of stalking. His movements were silent, an approach that betrayed neither sound nor presence. Green eyes, aglow with an ethereal intensity, tracked the deer's every movement.
The White Brother joined The Wild Brother in a seamless coordination of stealth. Two apparitions in the moonlit night, stalked the prey with a predatory grace. The sheen of their fur merged with the shadows, becoming one with the enveloping darkness.
With the prey in sight, The Grey Brother took charge, orchestrating the running phase with a swift and calculated pursuit. His powerful legs propelled the pack forward, closing the gap between them and the unsuspecting deer. The rhythmic pulsing of the pack's anticipation echoed through the shared understanding of the hunt.
In the final moments, The Wild Brother, with a fluid grace, lunged at the deer. His ebony form collided with the prey in a burst of primal energy. The impact, a culmination of power and precision, brought the creature to the forest floor.
The She-Wolf, through The Wild Brother's eyes, felt the triumphant surge of adrenaline. Fangs found flesh, and the scent of the kill graced the surrounding air, mingled with the scent of pine and earth.
Despite leading the hunt, the Grey Brother was not the alpha of the pack. The White Brother held that distinction. He would get the first taste of the kill. Once he'd had his fill, it would be the turn of the She-Wolf. She waited patiently until being given permission to feast. Her maul clamped down into the stomach of the dead deer, and the taste of blood filled her mouth.
Arya gasped, her eyes fixated on the ashen stone ceiling looming above her, the lingering metallic tang of blood still present on her lips. Surveying the room, she found Jon's gaze locked onto her, and then her attention shifted to Bran and Rickon, seated in chairs by the hearth, their vacant, milky-white eyes unsettling.
"Did you awaken after tasting the blood?" Arya inquired, her voice echoing in the hushed chamber.
Jon nodded, a hint of trepidation in his eyes. "Strange, yet exhilarating, all at once."
Arya, less daunted, declared, "It was amazing," rising from the bed and swinging her legs around. "I want to do it again." Jon's furrowed brow betrayed his reluctance. "Don't you?"
Jon shook his head. "I'm doing it because Bran said it was necessary."
Perplexed, Arya pressed, "Do you think Bran is remembering? Or is he the Three-Eyed Raven? I didn't think he had a dagger."
Jon, grappling with uncertainty, replied, "I don't know. I've asked Father to send him to Queenscrown to be with Sansa. She will know what's happening to him. Father cannot help."
Arya couldn't help but notice Jon's distinct use of 'father' when addressing Bran, Rickon, Robb, and herself, a term reserved for those he had always regarded as siblings. With Sansa and their mother, 'father' became 'Lord Stark,' a subtle yet meaningful distinction reflecting Sansa's role as his wife.
"Sansa is smart; she'll know how to deal with him." Arya remarked.
Jon nodded in agreement. "She'll understand his visions."
Concern etched Arya's face as she contemplated Rickon. "And Rickon? How do we know whether he will have them too? Are they both seers?" She knew Jon didn't possess the answer to this enigma.
"He can't leave yet; he's only eight." Jon responded.
"Eight and a half." Rickon corrected him, a touch of defiance in his voice.
Turning their attention to the fire, Arya and Jon found Bran and Rickon seated, a satisfied air about them.
"How long have you been back?" Arya inquired.
"Just now." Bran replied. "I waited until Rickon had finished before letting Ghost and Nymeria feed again. Were you able to control when you woke, or did something startle you?"
Jon frowned at the notion. "What do you mean, startle us?"
"When you control the hunt, the first intentional taste of blood wakes you up the first few times. After a while, you get used to it. Soon, you'll learn to wake when you want to. It is the most important lesson." Bran conveyed to them.
Jon, with a deeper understanding of the ways of skin-changers from his time among them, inquired, "Is it because if we die in the animal, the human dies as well?"
Bran acknowledged with a nod. "As soon as you sense danger, you need to retreat from the body of the animal."
Arya pressed further, "Can we change into other animals?"
Bran nodded again. "But you must practice regularly. The best chance we have for survival is if we all learn this skill. I will teach Sansa and Robb when I go north."
Arya's frown deepened as Bran's demeanour took on an unsettling gravity. He sounded old again, a monotone voice occasionally emerging from his lips, reminiscent of the Three-Eyed Raven. The disquiet lingered, a shared concern between Arya and Jon.
"I know you worry, Jon, but it is important you are able to keep in contact with Sansa. If you can warg into Ghost, then she can keep you abreast of what is happening in the north. If she needs you to do anything." Bran turned to Arya. "Or if Littlefinger needs to do anything."
Arya observed Jon's face lose its colour, mirroring the unease that settled in her own stomach. He understood the implications of Bran's suggestion. He knew what she could do.
Arya turned to Rickon, a sense of urgency in her voice. "Leave us for a while. Jon and I need to talk to Bran in private."
"Why?" Rickon protested.
Jon's tone turned stern. "Do as Arya tells you."
Rickon, expressing his displeasure, rose from his seat and stomped his feet as he walked towards the door. He opened it and muttered, "Not fair," before slamming it shut with all the effort an eight-year-old could muster.
Alone with Bran, the air grew heavy and tense. His gaze bore through Arya and Jon, and Jon cut through the silence, seeking answers. "What do you know, Bran?"
Bran turned to Arya. "I saw what happened in Braavos, the House of Black and White. I know you have Littlefinger's face. Use it wisely. It could be one of your greatest weapons."
"Can you see our past lives? Or have you come from our past life? Are you the Three Eyed Raven?" Arya had so many questions.
Bran shook his head. "No, I'm just a seer. I can your past, including your past lives and your what could be your future. Not everything is certain, only if you follow the right path."
"Do you know everything about our past lives and the future." Jon said.
Bran shook his head. "Only a bits and pieces, they come to me every now and again, especially when I'm in the godswood. I think I learn what matters the most." He admitted. I know nothing of my own, other than dying in a cave, with Summer and Hodor." Bran said. Arya gave Jon worried look, but they said nothing. "I am a powerful seer, nothing more."
Arya exchanged a worried glance with Jon, their shared concern unspoken. But Arya couldn't resist a smirk. "Can you skin-change into anything else other than Summer? Another type of animal, not a wolf," She probed, recalling his ability to see through the eyes of birds. She had an idea, but she wanted to run it past Jon first.
Bran nodded and smiled. "I can skin-change into a raven. Birds are fairly easy, and very useful. All of us have skin-changing abilities." He turned to Jon. "If you want to watch over Sansa from Dragonstone, then learn to see through Ghost's eyes. You can still be with her. Find out what is going on without the need to wait for ravens."
Bran's eyes suddenly turned milky-white for a moment, before returning to their normal colour of Tully blue. "Summer, Ghost and Nymeria will be back shortly. Keep trying to enter their minds and pull out when you want to. Once you become practised at it, you can stay in as long as you want or need to."
Jon stood, as did Arya. "Maybe we should go to bed and wait for the wolves to return before we practise."
Arya, feeling uncomfortable with the entire conversation agreed. "I think we should retire." Desperate for some ale, she turned to Jon. "Have you got any ale?"
Jon gave her an exasperated look. "Aye, you can have some of mine."
Arya followed him back to his chambers, where he let her inside so they could wait for their direwolves. Jon closed the door while Arya sat down beside the fire, drawing out her dagger and absent-mindedly spinning it point down on the table, while Jon poured the ale.
"What did you think of what Bran said?" Arya asked, looking up as Jon walked towards her. "About him dying in the cave with Summer and Hodor. Do you think he was lying?"
"I don't think he was." Jon said, his voice low, as if worried Bran might be listening. "That person we knew wasn't our brother."
"Then who was he? And why has he sent us back again?" Arya asked. "Did we take daggers to the heart for no reason?"
"Mayhap it needed two lifetimes to prepare for the threat." Jon sat down opposite her. "Maybe that was why we couldn't win the first time. We never stood a chance." He sighed, running his hand down his face. Arya noted how tired he looked, momentarily reminding her of the Jon who had returned from Dragonstone.
Arya shifted the conversation. "I suppose we should talk about Littlefinger."
Jon shook his head. "Gods, Arya. If Sansa knew the half of it."
"You'd be kicked out of bed for a month." Arya laughed. "I doubt she'd chop it off, if that's what you're worried about." She said, as she saw the look of horror on Jon's face. "Seven hells, Jon. You two were stuck in a cave for two days. All of Queenscrown were laying bets on how many times you two would fuck while you were there."
Jon's expression dropped at the mention of Sansa potentially finding out. "Sansa best never know of this."
Arya couldn't resist a teasing laugh. "Tormund will say something. At least mother never heard. We kept that one from her. Thank the gods she left when she did."
Jon, blushing like a green boy, became the subject of Arya's amusement. "Go on, how many?"
"Not saying."
"Seven hells, Jon, I've got five silver stags riding on this bet. Please tell me it was six."
"No, it wasn't. That'll teach you not to bet on things you'll never win," Jon retorted, a smug note in his tone. "Anyway, more importantly, Littlefinger. What have you got planned, other than to return the ledgers?"
Arya leaned in, with a determined glint in her eyes. "I want to stay in King's Landing for a little longer. I want to spend some time with Lady Olenna. She needs to know what a shit Joffrey is. We might be able to poison him. It would remove one obstacle."
Jon's shock was palpable. "And have me go to war with Tommen?"
Arya, indifferent to the potential consequences, replied, "So?"
"Arya, he's a little boy. I'd prefer fighting a King like Joffrey. I don't want to kill an innocent boy, who did nothing wrong other than be born on the wrong side of the marital bed. Something I am very much knowledgeable of, even if it turned out to be untrue."
"Born to the most evil woman who ever lived," Arya remarked.
"I thought you said that was Daenerys," Jon sighed.
"No, Cersei comes first. She's second, and the red witch is a close third. She'll be there, won't she? On Dragonstone," Arya speculated.
Jon nodded. "Possibly."
"Trying to free the Prince that was Promised from the black cells, even though he will be stood right in front of her." Arya teased, taking a gulp of her ale. The bitter liquid warmed her, and she sighed in contentment. "You can't just go to war with Joffrey because he's an evil little shit. You are going to war with the Lannisters. Joffrey has to die, so do Cersei, Tywin, and Jaime."
"I don't mind Jaime helping us fight for the living," Jon said.
"But he's still an annoying cunt. It was the golden hand that made him almost tolerable. That and Brienne of Tarth. Pity she was executed for Renly's murder; I liked her. Jaime really had a thing for her," Arya reflected.
"Brienne was everything he wished he was," Jon explained. "Jaime is a man torn between honour, love, and duty. Brienne was honour and duty personified. He admired her, aspired to be her."
"He aspired to be inside her," Arya laughed.
"You are far cruder than you once were," Jon frowned.
"I spent too much time with the Hound, and lately with Theon," Arya admitted. Then, a previously forgotten idea resurfaced. "I've just remembered a suggestion I was going to make."
"Go on."
"Those who were prepared to help during the long night ought to be given the first choice of being Kingsguard," she proposed. "After all, it is supposedly an honour"
Jon raised a valid concern. "And what happens afterward? When I've lost all of my Kingsguard?" A scratching sound at the door interrupted their conversation. "That'll be Ghost," as a whining sound echoed from the other side of the door.
"And Nymeria," Arya added.
Jon opened the door, and the two enormous direwolves bounded in, their muzzles tinged pink from the blood. Arya couldn't help but compare their casual entrance to how Sansa would handle it. "You know, Sansa would have a cloth out by now, washing them down. Or trying to," Arya laughed.
"Ghost lets her," Jon shrugged, retaking his seat as the direwolves curled up at their respective owners' feet.
"Traitor!" Arya teased the white direwolf, who nonchalantly crossed his front paws and closed his red eyes. Glancing up at Jon, Arya shifted to a more serious matter. "Speaking of Sansa and direwolves, I think Bran's idea of being able to see Sansa through the eyes of Ghost is clever."
Jon frowned. "What do you mean?" he asked.
"Wouldn't our lives be easier if we had Sansa helping us in King's Landing?" Arya suggested.
"How? She's in Queenscrown. I'm not risking taking her to King's Landing," Jon objected, shaking his head.
Arya grinned. "No need to. Bran is going north to Queenscrown. He can skin-change into a raven, which could come with us. Nymeria and Ghost are going north. Bran sees through the bird, you see through Ghost. We can communicate without needing to send ravens."
Jon looked stunned by her idea. "Do you think that was what Bran was suggesting?" he asked.
Arya nodded. "As long as we have some method for Ghost to let Sansa know it is you, and when you are leaving Ghost's body. Then Bran can skin-change into the raven to listen to our replies. Of course, a conversation would take five times as long, but it is better than waiting weeks between letters."
"Being able to have Sansa helping us in King's Landing would be invaluable. Bran could skin-change into surrounding animals to listen to what people are saying. Sansa could write all of this down and tell us what they are up to." Jon's excitement was palpable, and Arya couldn't help but share in it.
"It would make being away easier for you both. Especially if Bran teaches Sansa how to skin-change into a bird," Arya suggested. Jon frowned.
"What is it?" Arya inquired.
"The Hound would call her little bird, and Cersei would call her little dove," Jon revealed.
Arya smirked. "Maybe she ought to learn how to live up to her reputation." She placed her empty tankard on the table and stood. "Right, Your Grace. I want to return to my chambers, to practise seeing through the eyes of Nymeria. I'm sure you wish to do the same with Ghost, now you have an incentive."
Jon rolled his eyes, standing and approaching her for a hug. "Thank you," he whispered.
Arya pulled back, teasing, "Seven hells, Jon. What's happened to you? You've gone soppy. She'll have you sewing next." Jon gave her a pointed look. "Goodnight, Your Grace." She curtseyed, knowing it would annoy him, turned on her heel, arms behind her back. "Come, Nymeria," she called, and returned to her chambers for the night.
In the following two days, they dedicated themselves to honing their warging skills. Once the idea of using skin-changing for long-distance communication took root, Jon penned a cryptic message to Sansa, hinting at a name-day gift that would soon be on its way. Yet, the message was just one aspect of the parcel he dispatched to her. From Queenscrown, Jon had corresponded with Father, requesting Gendry's skill in crafting a unique dagger.
With meticulous attention, Jon conceived the design of the blade and hilt, fashioning a slender eight-inch weapon adorned with intricate decorations. The bone hilt bore a wolf motif expertly etched into its surface. The pommel, was crafted from steel and shaped like a direwolf akin to Longclaw, except instead of Ghost, its gleaming amber eyes it were to represent Lady. Arya couldn't help but feel a twinge of envy, recognizing the exquisite craftsmanship. Especially at the hands of Gendry. Sansa deserved a splendid weapon of her own, especially given her growing proficiency with a dagger, as attested by Tormund's words.
In return, Arya presented Sansa with a weirwood bow, acknowledging her sister's keen interest and skill in archery. Another gift of a different nature, was dispatched northward—Gendry himself. As the Freefolk ventured south of the Wall, Queenscrown needed a skilled smith, and Gendry's craftsmanship would undoubtedly prove invaluable.
Gendry had been a scarce presence in Arya's life since her return with Jon. While their bond had deepened during her stay in Winterfell after the trip to King's Landing with Theon, this reunion was fleeting. Arya harboured a silent hope that Gendry wouldn't succumb to the allure of a spearwife in her absence. However, she couldn't fault him if he did. Their relationship had undergone a transformation, much to her disappointment, as she grappled with the stark reality of Arya's status as a lady and his as a bastard.
The playful banter that had defined their interaction in her previous life seemed to have evaporated. Arya longed for its return, but circumstances dictated otherwise. Gendry's presence in Queenscrown might offer him the freedom to be more himself. In Winterfell, the constraints of his position working for her father had curtailed any untoward behaviour, something Arya secretly desired.
As they set off on the journey, a familiar sense of déjà vu lingered in the air. Arya, Jon, and a retinue of six men were bound for White Harbor instead of King's Landing this time. Instead, Bran was the one travelling north up the Kingsroad. The echoes of their past departure weren't lost on Arya or Jon. The only notable difference was their destinations and a newfound ability to communicate with each other through the three ravens Bran had given them and the direwolves.
With farewells exchanged, Arya observed as Bran and his entourage, comprising thirty soldiers and three direwolves, embarked on the road northward.
As Bran's figure vanished into the distance, the group turned their attention southward. However, Jon's gaze lingered on Winterfell, prompting Arya to inquire, "What is it?"
"The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives," Jon replied, his eyes fixed on their ancestral home. "Rickon is on his own."
Arya furrowed her brow in confusion. "He's with Father."
"Aye. I suppose," Jon acknowledged. "It's just, Shaggy is separated from his litter-mates. All the wolves will be in Queenscrown, save for Shaggy."
An unease settled within Arya. "Do you think something will happen to Rickon?"
Jon shrugged, a mixture of concern and uncertainty in his expression. "I hope not. I mean, you're right. He's with Father. He should be alright." A reassuring smile graced Jon's lips before he nudged his horse forward. "If we're swift, we'll reach Castle Cerwyn by nightfall." The urgency in Jon's voice hinted at the underlying apprehension, leaving Arya with a lingering sense of worry for the youngest Stark, however, there was nothing they could do about it. And anyway, father would keep him safe.