Direwolves are a wild, ancient type of magic. The Old Gods had tried to warn the Starks when they sent the wolves to them. The parent had been lost to the stag, and the stag to her, leaving behind six babes. Two girls and four boys, each loving each other and holding tight ties to their siblings. The wolfpups had a sense of each other that their humans would have done anything to possess themselves, but all were fiercely protective of each other regardless.

The Little Sister, called Lady by her girl, had been lost when they were still pups, and the five who were left howled their grief to the heavens. Her girl howled with them, in her heart of hearts, and the girl who was half-wolf herself howled aloud.

The Oldest Brother, called Grey Wind, had not been a great deal older when he, too, had been lost. The Wild Sister, Nymeria, knows that her girl had been there. Even though she had been separated from her girl, Nymeria could still feel Arya in the back of her head, and they had howled together throughout that terrible night. The others had joined them – Brindled, White and Black, scattered across the land and past the humans' Wall, all had mourned the eldest of the Pack. The three boys who remain take a while to figure out why their wolves grieve so, but Nymeria's girl knows, and she is shattered for it. Lady's girl will not find out for another week, and when she does she will first hide her grief, and then mourn terribly in private. Her dreams will show her what she has missed.

In the Riverlands, Nymeria's girl wanders in pain and alone except for the old Hound. And in the Riverlands, Nymeria's pack grows larger.

The Brindled Brother, the last to be named by his human, was far, far to the North – where their mother had first carried them from, and far beyond any of them, even the quiet White Brother. The Black Brother was the closest to her pack out of all of them, and sometimes Nymeria wished that she could run to him, grab him and his boy and bring them with her to these southern Riverlands. If they were here with her, Nymeria knew that she could keep them safe with her pack of hundreds. She could keep them fed, even the boy, with all of the prey in these lands she called her own. Winter was coming, and monsters came with it, and she wanted her family as close as she could get them. She wanted her girl back, from beyond the Dead Water, wanted her brothers altogether with her pack, and she wanted the threats gone.

There was something wrong with her wild Black Brother, and as the eldest born pup left, it was her job to keep him safe. With a howl, Nymeria gathered her pack, and headed North for the first time in years.

A girl woke to darkness in Braavos, howling. The direwolf that had once been Arya Stark's shared a girl's head every night, but this time the beast had been trying to talk to a girl, not just sharing headspace. Nymeria had been trying to talk to Arya Stark, but Arya Stark was dead. There was only No One left, now.

A girl locked away her dream, prayed to the Many Faced God in the form of the Northmen's Weirwood-faced Old Gods, broke her fast, and went to train with the Waif. A girl lost. A girl tried not to think of Rickon Stark, direwolves or Westeros. A girl may have been successful, for Jaqen H'Ghar gave her another test. A girl was asked to prove she was No One, to drink a potion without fear. And so a girl did, and had her eyes returned to her. A girl showed no emotion, and a girl was asked to give the God's Mercy via poison. A girl was to go to the Mummers Square, find this Lady Crane, and give her the Gift. A girl was now called Mercy.

A girl watched a play. A girl was watched. A girl watched the mummers backstage, found Lady Crane's wine, discovered that she always had a cup after each performance in celebration. A girl's path was clear, but first she wanted to know why Lady Crane was to receive the gift. And so, a girl watched some more, listened hard, and gathered rumours.

A girl went back to the House, and asked for a face. A girl was denied, and a girl dreamed again.

Nymeria ran North, to her wildest brother, the closest. There was something wrong – he and his boy and the woman who looked after the boy had gone to one of the big man rocks for protection, but it didn't look like the right kind of protection. The woman had chased the Black Brother, Shaggydog, away from the man rock, had tried to make the boy run, but they had been run down by the men's horses. Shaggydog had been hit with the flying claws as he retreated, and Nymeria and their other two brothers had all howled at the knowledge.

So now Nymeria was running north, north, North to find her wounded brother, and to take back his boy.

Her pack ran with her, hundreds of wolves and dogs of all sizes, all smaller than Nymeria. She was the alpha of this pack, and if she told them she was going North, then they were all going. It's when her forerunners tell her of a man that she starts to sense an issue might arise in her pack.

The Hound, her girl's voice drifts through the back of her head.

The man had been pack-not-pack to her girl, had kept her alive when Nymeria couldn't. He had fed her and sheltered her, and the girl had thought that he'd died for her. Nymeria knows that the man can help her with her little brother and the flying claws he was attacked with, and even though he is a massive man, she is a massive wolf, even for her kind.

Nymeria stalks towards the man, growling a warning. The warning is for her pack, for the ones who want to run and for the one's who want to feast, but the man is made wary by it too.

Good. She didn't think he was a fool, but it was hard to tell with men; even her girl had had her moments.

"And which one are you, then?" The Hound growls, dropping his wood-and-metal claw and watching Nymeria closely. "You're not Lady, I know that, and you're not the King's." Nymeria starts at the sound of the Little Sister's man-name, ears flicking up and down once. "If you were wild, I'd be dead. So then. Are you Nymeria?"

She whined at her man-name, and cocked her head at the man.

"Of course you'd belong to the little wolf bitch. Leaves me for dead so her wolf can kill me off, is that it?"

Her girl is in the back of her head, helping the man-tongue make sense to Nymeria; they shake their shared head, stalk forward, and sniff him all over. Once she is satisfied with his scent, she crouches, and gestures to her back with her head.

"Fuck off," The Hound snarls. "Your girl almost killed me, I'm not letting you finish the job!"

Nymeria huffs, narrows her eyes at him and tosses her head again. She snarls at her pack, sends them running towards the North once again.

"North, maybe?" The Hound whispers. "Well, they say the Little Bird is in the North – maybe she'll want a dried out old cunt for company. Will you let me gather supplies?"

Nymeria rocks upright and nudges the man with her head – hurry up, she tries to say. The message must cross over, because the man hefts his odd claw and makes a quick, limping pace back towards a man-den being made out of stripped trees. Nymeria wants to hang back, but her girl is so curious that she goes close enough that they can see and hear clearly.

"Septon Rae!" He calls out to a short man with dark skin and darker fur. "I've got to go. Don't get killed. Don't touch those fucking mushrooms again. And burn that fucking helm already. What did you do with the rest of my armour?"

"You're leaving us for wolves?" The little man askes, teeth flashing. "Your plate and chainmail are in the river where you threw them, and you gave your sword to Stig's son, remember?"

"Seven hells," The Hound growls, stalking over to a bedroll and pack, throwing only a few things together and slinging them over his shoulder, hefting the man-claw and growling his way back to Nymeria.

"Listen here," He snaps at her, ignoring the gaping smaller man and pointing a single finger in her face. "I'm only coming because of the wolf girl and the little bird, d'you understand? You be straight with me, and I'll be straight with you. Let's go."

Nymeria crouches again for him, and once he seems to have settled, she takes off. It is not as easy to run with such a large man on her back, but Nymeria is strong, and her girl is more present in the back of her head since … well, since she sent Nymeria away, the wolf supposes.

Come back to the pack, Nymeria thinks to her girl. To our brothers. Help me save them.

Her girl is hesitant, but finally Nymeria can sense she has just nodded.

A girl is Arya Stark of Winterfell, her girl thinks to her. And I'm coming home.

It is the middle of the night when Arya awakens. It is the hour of the wolf, and there is no one else in the House who should be awake right now. It is better safe than sorry though, so Arya travels quietly and quickly, finds her way to all of the little places across Braavos where she had hidden away coins, provisions, a change of clothes, and the spot off the harbour where she had tucked away her Needle. She has made it a point since she first landed in this country to always know which ship is what, where it is from and when and where it is going next.

Right on dawn she finds the small trader from White Harbour that she had been looking for, and just as it is taking off she races across the jetty and launches herself on to the decking. The men all turn to her in shock and anger, but she turns to the captain and speaks calmly and clearly.

"I would like to book passage home. I can pay, and I brought food enough for the journey."

The captain sneers at her. "Get off of my ship. I wouldn't give you passage if you were Sansa Stark herself!"

"It's a good thing I'm only her little sister, then." Arya says bravely. "My name is Arya Stark. I have a castle to retake."

"Arya Stark is dead," Snapped the captain.

"No, that's her alright!" One of the deckhands exclaimed. "Arya Underfoot! I took a delivery to Winterfell just before old King Robert arrived, and you and your little brother, the one what was crippled, you two was chasing each other all over the castle walls! What are you doing in Braavos?"

"It doesn't matter now." Arya says simply. The ship has continued to move towards Westeros the whole time they've been talking, but she wants to make sure. "Can I strike a deal, Captain?"

The captain makes a disgusted noise, before turning to his first mate. "You, get us home. Lady Stark, in here."

She resists the automatic I'm not a Lady, and follows him in to his cabin/study. He wants to know why she was in Braavos, but she won't tell him. He wants to drop her off in the ocean, but she promises it won't be worth it. He wants her to pay an extravagant fee for her charter, but she had been Cat of the Canals long enough to know what the average price for a ship to Westeros should be, and she knows what a last-minute passenger might be charged, and had eventually whittled his fee back down to something reasonable enough to leave her money for when they made land. He said if she wanted to sleep anywhere, it would have to be on deck. She said that there would surely be room for someone her size in the cargo hold, and they had then gone round and round in circles trying to find somewhere where they were both happy for her to spend her nights.

She was not a child any longer. She was not going to sleep somewhere it might cost her.

The man is grumbling and growling to himself when Nymeria finally calls for the pack to rest. They have made it from the foothills of what was called the Vale, and have reached the very edge of the marshlands.

"Fucking Neck," the man snarls when he hops off of Nymeria and sinks almost to his knees in the mire. "Fucking Starks."

Nymeria ignores him, and her pack give him a weary berth. As well as they can with the terrain, they sleep in a massive circle through the grey dawn hours, the man sleeping against Nymeria's flank. Once the light of day is certain, Nymeria sends members of the pack to hunt for the whole group, and takes the time to try and see if she can't find her girl. Arya Stark had run with the pack on and off throughout the night, and Nymeria knew this to be because her girl did not trust the men around her. Her girl was on a big man-wood structure on the dead water, and was still some distance away – would not arrive in this land for many nights yet. Nymeria was impatient for her girl to come though; she wanted to rescue her brother, and his boy.

Her girl is lurking in the corners of Nymeria's head when a scuffle breaks out between members of the pack. One brindled female, Good-Mother-*particular pitched whine*, had snapped at another female over her treatment of the pups. The last batch of pups were half-grown, and were struggling with Nymeria's unforgiving pace. Good-Mother-*particular pitched whine* wanted to let them rest longer, but the other female, one of the previous litter, wanted to show them how to catch the rain-singers, the small, quick, slimy creatures who tasted nice. Good-Mother-*particular pitched whine* snapped at *huff*-young-quickbite, and Nymeria snarled at both. Her girl told Nymeria to take blood from *huff*-young-quickbite to set an example, but Nymeria snarled at her too. That wasn't how to run a pack. Both females were snarled and snapped at, and Nymeria told the pups to rest while they could, and drink plenty of water. She told *huff*-young-quickbite that she could demonstrate how to catch the rain-singers, and told the pups to wait until they were finished going North before trying it for themselves. Good-Mother-*particular pitched whine* she told to step back a little, and to rest as well.

Her girl is quiet, but present, in the back of Nymeria's head. You didn't draw blood? She asks.

Nymeria sends back a head-shake. Injuries will come later, she says. No need for blood yet. Both females can offer more if they are kept happy. The pack must work together. Don't forget again – you have been lone-wolf too long.

Her girl sends back her own nod, and then disappears again. Nymeria misses her.

The crew of the ship eventually find out that she had been of service to the House. Whilst it does not get her free passage, as she might have expected of an Essosi ship, it does guarantee her secrecy. There was still a price on her head, and Cersei had revealed herself to be almost as mad as her firstborn. The sailors agreed that they were likely to be hung for treason, if it was found out that they had had Arya Stark, and not handed her over to the Queen. There was a girl a few years older than Arya who was the sole non-Westerosi aboard, and she suffered of a wasting disease. She was a believer of the Many Faced God, and she had begged the mercy of the Gift, offering her face as payment. She was pretty, a merchant girl from Volantis, and Arya knew she could use this face to get what she wanted, once they made port. She had the girl, Ghita, tell her all she could about her trade, and then had given her the Gift. A slip of a certain herb in her cup at dinner, and it appeared as though Ghita had simply succumbed to her disease earlier than expected. Arya had taken her face, wrapped the body, and said the prayers of the Old Gods. She hoped the poor girl found something better, more peaceful, in death.

As soon as the ship had made port, Arya put on Ghita's face and one of her dresses, and made her way to the Merman's Court. She sneaks in to the castle, follows the shadows until she finds her way to the Hall. Lord Wyman is easy to spot, and easy to approach; he is stuffing his face and trying not to listen to his Lannister-faced Maester. Arya has not been herself – Underfoot, Horseface, the daughter of Winterfell – in a very long time, so it takes her a moment of standing in front of the Lard Lord in order to regain that person.

"You're pretty, lass, but our grandfather is busy," A young brunette to the left of the Lord says firmly, mistaking her staring for desire.

"This face is, yes." Arya agrees, keeping her eyes on Wyman. "But that is not why I am here, Lady Wynafred." This had to be Wyman's older granddaughter – Arya had only ever met the younger, and knew Wylla to be cheerful and to be fond of dying her hair a lurid shade of green. They had made fast friends over Harvest Feasts, mostly because Arya had thought her hair amazing, and because Wylla was trying to win Jon over for her sister. Bastard Arya's favourite brother may have been, but he was Ned Stark's bastard, and that held sway in the North – especially for two ambitious daughters who did not wish to lose their House names.

Finally, the fat Lord looks at her, eyes gleaming as much as the fat on his face. "What do you want, girl?"

"Valar Morghulis." She says, watches the recognition flash briefly through those gimlet eyes. "The Harvest Festival of my oldest brother's tenth year, I made you choke on your soup, my Lord – I wanted to know why they called you Lord So-fat-he-can't-sit-a-horse, and I wanted to know how anyone managed to get so big. When King Robb went to war, you sent both your sons to fight for him, and lost them at that Red Wedding – one to the Gods, and one to the Freys. I would avenge them, and my own brothers, if I am able."

Wyman's eyes flick to the Maester, blonde and green-eyed and beautiful, and then back to hers quickly. In a simpering voice, he says, "I am old, my lady. My memory is not what it was, but… I could have sworn you looked like your father, gods rest his soul."

"I have come from Braavos," Arya says simply. "I picked up a trade, whilst I was there."

"So I see. Valar Dohaeris. What do you need to serve your vengeance?"

"A horse, for now. My baby brother needs rescuing, and once that is done…" She tails off, watches him carefully, keeps an awareness for the Maester beside him. "I plan to make for the Twins, after."

"Very good, my Lady. Though, not further North?"

Arya tips Ghita's face in to a moue of distress. "Justice must come first, my Lord, no matter what else I wish to do."

He nods a few times, at that. "You are your mother's daughter, truly. You must contact me when you have need of me again, my lady. Wynny, take the girl to the stables, and find her a good sturdy mount. Wylla, make sure she has enough food and drink. We will talk again, my lady. I pray the Seven keep you safe."

Arya inclines her head. "May the Old Gods watch over you and yours, my Lord. And may the Many Faced God have no need to grant you his Gift any time soon."

Wynafryd Manderly rises gracefully despite her sudden pallor and understanding, steps around the table, and escorts Arya to the stables, whilst her green-haired sister dashes away to the kitchens. Once Arya and Wynafryd have passed the last of the crowded corridors, Wynny spins both of them in to a spare room.

"You are truly the lady Arya Stark?" She whispers quickly. "Prove it."

Arya slips Ghita's face off long enough for Wynafryd to see her dark hair and grey eyes, and then pulls it back on again. Wynny grins brightly, hugs Arya tightly, and then proceeds to sneak her out of a window.

In the stables she is given a roan mare by Wynny, heavily-packed saddlebags by Wylla, and oaths of fealty on behalf of House Manderly. Arya thanks them both, and then turns the horse's head North and East.

Rickon, Shaggydog, she prays. Stay safe. I'm coming!

The man nearly seems to do nothing but grumble, snarl and complain. Nymeria now understands why her girl had wanted to tear out his throat more oft than not, and struggles to resist the urging herself. She needs the man alive to tend to her little brother.

The little men of the swamplands let them pass without issue, and none dare to stop the pack of hundreds. None dare to stop the Direwolf from returning to the North.

Except for one.

He stands alone, waiting for them in the middle of the Neck. Nymeria does not know him, and neither does the Hound, who growls out a who the fuck are you?

"My name is Howland Reed, Lord of the Neck. You are Sandor Clegane, yes? Who is that wolf you ride?"

"Nymeria," He grunts. "The direwolf of Arya Stark."

Howland cracked out a quiet chuckle, and stepped forward slowly. "The last of the family left unaccounted for is Ned's fierce little girl. Do you know how she fares?"

"She was fine enough when I saw her in the Vale two years ago. I don't know where she went after that, though. Probably Braavos – she had friends there."

In the back of Nymeria's head, her girl is touched that the growly older man remembered what she had once told him.

Howland Reed nods, and ignores the shifting of the regular wolves. "Lady Sansa passed through here some time ago to be married to Roose Bolton's bastard. I have not heard good things about their marriage."

The scent that comes off of the Hound at that puts Nymeria's ears back and hackles up – the sheer ferociousness of his rage at that sentence is a terrible thing.

"He won't be in power for long," He growls low, as wild as any member of the pack.

Howland watches him calmly. "Then I wish you good luck in your endeavours. Should you see any of Ned's children, please let them know that the Neck still remains loyal to House Stark. The Mormonts, Manderlys, and all of the Mountain Clans will all back them as well – especially with Nymeria to remind everyone to whom we owe the North. Safe travels, Sandor Clegane."

Once again, they move North.

The Lord of Winterfell is the Bastard of Bolton, and all of the intelligence that Arya has gathered has led her to add his name to her List. The three days of hard riding she had done from White Harbor to Winterfell, she had been recreating her childhood home in her head, trying to recall every secret passage way, every single entry-point, conventional and otherwise, the sounds and colours and backdrops, until Arya is certain that she can blend in anywhere.

Once she hits the Wolfswood, she hides her mount and leaves Ghita's face in place. With this face she intends to gather information. She spends three days in Wintertown doing just that, and three nights sneaking through the shadowed corridors of her childhood home and refamiliarizing herself with the castle and all its secrets, and discovers that she missed the chance to rescue her sister as well by only a few days. On the fourth day, Smalljon Umber arrives at Winterfell, so Arya disguises herself as a server and sneaks in. She finds out that it is baby Rickon that the traitor has brought as a bargaining chip, and the Wildling woman who has been looking after him. Ramsay is very excited about this, and his good humour sends chills running up and down Arya's back, arms and neck, raises her hackles and has her half-slipping in to Nymeria's skin to beg her to hurry.

She is surprised to find that Nymeria is already past Winterfell, and has found Shaggydog in the northernmost section of the Wolfswood. The Hound is being pushed forward by an equally impatient Nymeria – an arrow sticks out of Shaggy's flank, and there are bloody, matted stains littering his dark fur, and man-paws are better suited to this task than a wolf's. She leaves the Hound with Shaggydog, leaves all forty-seven of the actual dogs, the five pups and three of the wolves as their protection (Good-Mother-*particular pitched whine* and two males), and then wheels south. Back to Winterfell; back to Arya. She ignores the Hound's roars as the pack disappears south.

As quick as a deer and as silent as a shadow, Arya slips through deserted corridors until she can finally duck out of the window of what was once Robb's room. Bran had shown her this once in a fit of boredom, how to sneak from each of their bedrooms in to Mother and Father's chambers without every using a door; she chose Robb's simply because it was closest, and left her exposed less than any other window might. She had heard Ramsay order the Wildling woman be scrubbed and then brought to him in his chambers, and had easily deduced that he meant her parents room. Taking Bran's "short-cut", Arya sneaks in and tucks herself away in the shadows at the back of the room, out of the way and facing the door.

The man who fears losing has already lost, Syrio's voice drifted to her from the past. Her training in the House helped her untap the almost overlooked magic of being unnoticeable – something that all bastards of the Seven Kingdoms had managed to unlock, to some degree, on their own. Calm as still water; I am dust, I am stone, I am the background. I am No One, I am nothing.

Eventually her patience is rewarded.

Ramsay enters, putters around with some paperwork and writes a letter. A terrified servant serves him a small lunch, and departs as quickly as possible to the Maesters Tower to post the letter. As Ramsay is cutting in to an apple to finish up, Osha is brought in in barely more than a shift, looking clean and perfectly nonchalant. But Arya is now a master of reading people's faces, and she can see that calculating, desperate gleam in the Wilding's eyes.

She watches their interaction, as this woman kisses and plays with the Bastard, and she sees Osha's eyes cut to the paring knife on the table. Of course – this woman has been looking after Rickon for nearly five years now, and she is a Wildling. She is a Northerner, and they are nothing if not loyal.

Boltons are not. Arya might not have Sansa's memory for all the Houses and their histories, but she knows the North, and she knows the scariest stories of the Houses pasts, the Old Kings. She knows why the Boltons bare the Flayed Man for their sigil, knows why they were the Red Kings, and knows why Roose, the traitor, was called the Leech Lord. So Arya will help this Wild woman who protected her baby brother, and then she will reclaim her family's home.

Quick as a snake and as silent as No One, Arya darts forward and slits Ramsay's throat from ear to ear, even as he's raising his own dagger to cut Osha. She grabs his hand, vice-like, and whispers in his ear, "My name is Arya Stark. This is for my brothers and sister, bastard."

Osha keeps her mouth glued to Ramsay's until he has breathed his last, covers his death rattles with moans. Once he is finished, she raises herself carefully from his body, spits out blood, and never once takes her eyes off of Arya.

"Rickon?" Arya asks, almost gently.

"The little wolf was taken to the dungeons, I think. Aren't you supposed to be dead?"

"Many times over," Arya grins back at her. "But so is Rickon. The only reason I went to Braavos was because I thought I didn't have anyone left, and I couldn't get to the Wall and Jon. Rickon is the reason I came back. Help me shift him?"

"What are you going to do with him?"

"I'm going to steal his face and retake this castle." Arya answers simply, tearing a rag from his sheets and beginning to clean his face. "Will you help me?"

"Steal his face?" Osha demands, tying the paring knife to her calf and Ramsay's dagger to her forearm. "What bloodmagic is that?"

"Braavosi, I think. Or, perhaps Valyrian, at it's roots. It doesn't matter – tell me all you can of him. Please."

"He was wedded to your sister. We heard about it when we was with the Umbers. They were good to us only until they could find a way to lock Shaggy up, and then we was tucked into the dungeons until they could find something to do with us, and even we heard what that pale-eyed freak was doing to her. Heard she would scream every night from when they wed to when she escaped, but no one was game to do anything against the Boltons. This one's father killed your brother the King, but then this one killed his father too, and his step-mother and baby brother. I hear the dungeons are where he does his torturing – heard they had that Theon Greyjoy, but he helped get your sister out when Stannis attacked."

As Osha is speaking, Arya finishes cleaning the face, and then proceeds to remove it with her own dagger, making sure to cut all the way round in order to collect the hair.

"Thank you," Arya tells her quietly. "Can you make it sound like you're having sex with him? I need noise for cover."

Osha grins quickly, wicked sharp, and then starts moving to the bed, moaning loudly. Arya had spent enough time in brothels over the years to know a convincing act when she heard it. With a harsh grin of her own, Arya began to quickly rifle through his desk, skim-reading what she could, and taking mental notes of what she would need to translate later.

Eventually she signals Osha to "finish", and heads back over to the body, stripping him and pulling the clothes on over her own. "Thank you. I – I need to maintain a cover, so I need to send you down to the dungeons, but I can't escort you myself. If I put you in with Rickon, can you tell him that I'm here? That I love him and miss him, and I'll do everything I can to keep him safe. Please?"

"I can do that." The woman says calmly, biting in to Ramsay's apple.

"Can – " Arya began, stopped, and then whispered, "What does he look like now? Rickon."

"A bit like your King brother," Osha says around a mouthful. "Them red curls of his are as wild as they was when he was a pup, but his eyes have changed a fair bit – they're almost like yours, but a bit bluer, I think; it's a pretty blue-grey. Looks a bit like the sea sometimes, them – whitecaps? He's tall now, too, near as tall as me, for all he's one and ten. Shot up like a weed, so I made him learn how to make his own clothes. Him and that wolf o' his, they was close, warg close. He's not gonna be good, after what Smalljon did to Shaggy."

"Warg?" Arya asks around a choked up throat. She's trying to picture little baby Rickon, and all she can imagine is Robb with a black direwolf. But she knows this word, warg, and senses this to be of great import.

"Skinchanger. Someone who can walk in the skin of an animal. Rickon could do it with Shaggydog in his dreams, and knew whatever the wolf knew. Bran, he could do it with Summer and with others. I heard Robb and Grey Wind could do something similar, too."

"When I was in Braavos," Arya whispers, "I had my eyesight taken from me for a time. I used a cat to help me see, in the beginning. But I've always seen Nymeria in my dreams. She called to me, told me to come back to Westeros for the Black Brother – Shaggydog. He's fine, by the way. Nymeria found him, and has a man with her who can stitch him back up, and she left some of the pack behind to protect them."

"How're you going to take this castle?" Osha askes carefully, mouth full.

Arya pauses, and thinks deeply. She has plenty of strategies, and she thinks to run them by this Osha to see what her take is on each plan.

"There are many options." She settles on finally. "I could call everyone who supports the Boltons in for a feast, poison the wine and have them drink that. But that's what I had thought to do to the Freys, and I don't know how many of the people here might still be loyal to House Stark, and are just pretending loyalty to Ramsay. I'd also thought about just cutting the throats of the Bolton men and the attending Lords in their sleep, just ask 'em who they truly serve, but that won't work. I could even do an announcement that I have Rickon, the last trueborn son of Ned Stark, in my dungeons, and see what sort of reactions that gets me, and kill off the ones who aren't still loyal to my family. Or, I could even use the wolves to terrify them, start a whisper compaign with the smallfolk about how only those loyal to the Starks will survive, and ask the pack to remove the others. The simplest option, of course, would be to mount this head atop our outer wall and work from there. I hadn't really decided yet."

"You are vicious, aren't ya?" Osha says approvingly.

"I want to avenge my family," Arya answers honestly. "And I want to protect those who remain."

Osha nods a few times, mulling over Arya's plans. "I'm a Free woman. We're simple folk, up past that Wall o' yours. I'd just stick him up where they put your Ser Rodrik's head, and watch the rats scamper."

Arya nods slowly. Osha's answer has merit, of course – Arya wanted to save the poison for the Freys, wanted to use the tale of the Rat King, wanted to see their faces when they realised that the North truly remembered. Waking and killing men in the night may have suited the House, but it could not serve House Stark – Nymeria had been right to say that Arya had been lone-wolf for too long. So, perhaps a combination would be best. Play the part of Ramsay today, place his face back atop a severed head tonight, loose the wolves around these walls from the hour of the wolf till dawn, and watch as the household panicked.

"A good plan. The screams of wolves are frightful things, and to find the Lord's head after such a night would be… troubling." Arya's smile is one she saw on the Waif's face when she contemplated killing Arya, one she has felt on Nymeria's face against swordsmen. Osha's smile matches it. "Well then. Valar Morghulis."

It goes even better than Arya had hoped. Nymeria's pack had had a great deal of fun themselves, singing the wolfsongs as though they meant for Summer and Ghost to hear it beyond the Wall, for Lady's and Grey Wind's spirits to partake from Death's embrace. Arya had loathed herself most yesterday afternoon, for the farce of playing Ramsay Snow, but had come to enjoy herself throughout the night. Ramsay's body had been arranged on the bed, the head spitted on the wall, Rickon and Osha freed and tucked away, and herself once again donning Ghita's face in the kitchens.

The reunion with Rickon had been bittersweet – he looked more like Robb than the child she remembered, and he remembered almost nothing of her except she had once bested Bran at archery, and that she had named her wolf for a warrior queen. In fact, he had trusted in Nymeria more than he had trusted in Arya, which had stung. That announcement had convinced Arya to be less of No One and more of herself – the most she could remember being since Ned Stark's head had left his body. There was to be no more lone-wolf for Arya Stark from here on out. The princess of Winterfell was about to become Alpha of the pack of the Northern Lords, had one of her beloved little brothers returned to her, and she could no longer afford to be the shade she had been in Braavos.

Those who were loyal to Ramsay are panicking, and those who served for lack of a better choice are panicking. None know who is responsible, none know which allegiance will let them live. Arya tries not to let that little, terrible wyrm in her heart enjoy that too much. The Pack stopped their howls at dawn, and resumed again at sunset. The men were discouraged, and not even the pillow girls could distract anyone from the terrible song. At Osha's and Rickon's encouragement, Arya took Karstark's head that night, and Smalljon's the next, with the wolves singing all the while. The talk she picked up said that few of the other Lords backed the Boltons out of anything more than necessity, with the exception of Lady Dustin. Ghita's face gets Arya in to her chambers, a few drops in the Lady's tea gets a story, and without any regret, Arya adds another head to the wall and decides to sort out the matter of inheritance later. On the fifth day, the head torturer and flayer of the dungeons is put atop the wall too. The sixth, Ramsay's next-best torturer, and all of the Bolton banners are burning.

People are well and truly talking about running, now, and that little wyrm raises its head once again. Arya tries not to let it get to her, and Nymeria's presence in her head calms her some. So it is on the seventh day that Arya, Rickon and Osha take their place on the Winterfell dais. Ghita's face had been used to assure the cooks that the dais would be sat at, and all of Arya's practice in Braavos was needed to keep the smug expression off of her face. The order had been sent to gather all the living souls to the main hall, and the expression on their faces was priceless. Arya wished desperately to have Jon and Bran and Robb by her side too, so that they might fully appreciate the hilarity of the situation. Arya's mood was so buoyed that she even wished for Sansa – bratty and eternally thirteen in Arya's mind eye.

There were shouted questions and demands and Underfoot and Horseface and Stark! Arya raised her own hand, however, confident as her mother, calm as her father, and the hubbub quiets. Needle's weight on her hip was as reassuring as it ever had been, and Rickon's warmth at her side gave her more meaning than her own desire to survive.

The room is silent.

"The North remembers. You remember our father, Lord Eddard, and our mother, Lady Catelyn. You know House Stark, and you know us, know Arya and Rickon Stark. Ramsay Snow is dead by my hand. Harald Karstark is dead by my hand. Smalljon Umber is dead by my hand. Barbrey Dustin is dead by my hand. Shall I continue?" She is met with silent stares and pale faces. "When I was eleven, I watched Ilyn Payne take my father's head – your liege lord's head – with his own sword. I escaped only by luck. I took my first life. And time after time after time, I had to hear from gossip that my family was dead. I heard that my home was sacked, and my little brothers' dead with it. I heard that my sister was married to the Imp. I made it to the Twins in time to see my mother's body tossed in to the river, naked, to see my brother's direwolf killed and his body paraded around with that same direwolf's head sewn atop his shoulders. I killed one of the men who did that. I heard my half-brother was lost beyond the Wall. And so I went across the sea. I had friends in Braavos, in the House of Black and White."

Arya allows a moment of silence, and watches as understanding blooms on the faces before her. She feels Rickon glance up at her face, keeps her own blank, ignores his nudging elbow.

"My wolves have been in the North for weeks. You have listened to them, this last sevennight. They are led by my own direwolf, Nymeria. She will be joined shortly by Rickon's wolf, Shaggydog. Smalljon tried to kill him and was … unsuccessful." The silence stretches once again. "You must have questions? … No? Rickon, anything? Osha?" Two heads shake. "Hmm. Once again there is a Stark in Winterfell – there's two, when all the world thought there was none. I intend to keep Starks in Winterfell for a very long time to come. I want people to continue as they were under the rule of my father – I want people preparing for Winter as best they can, and I want the Wintertown to be shoaled up. My wolves know what they can and cannot eat, but even they will give way to temptation. I want riders sent out to all the crofters to inform them about the pack that will guard the North from now on. Rickon and I will take our meals in the hall with everybody else, and at each meal I would have someone sit with us and tell us of the week's occurance, as with our own father. On the fifth day of each week, I would ask that any complaints be brought forward so that we may offer council or insight. Does this agree with everyone?"

There are murmured yes m'ladys. "Now I know you are lying. No one ever completely agrees with their lords. Come – what ails do you have with me so far?"

One of the stablehands is finally brave enough. "Lady Stark, the dungeons?"

"Will be emptied today. Those beasts of Ramsay's shall be put down, too, and can either go in to a stew or to the wolfpack, I don't care. Anything else?"

There were shifty looks and nudging elbows. "Milady," The Kennelmaster began tentatively. "Your sister, the Lady Sansa, would be the next in line for Winterfell – that's part of why they married her to Lord Ramsey."

"You are correct," Arya nods to him. "Forgive me, but where is she? I understood that she was no longer at Winterfell."

"Aye, milady, she and Reek – that is, Theon Greyjoy – they escaped not long before Lord Umber's party arrived. They say she's gone to the Wall, if the Wild hasn't gotten her."

Rickon glances up at Arya, eyes flashing through a number of emotions.

(He remembers Sansa better than Arya only by a little bit, which also stings. He knows she looks like Mother, that she used to sing to him and let him play with her long red hair, that her direwolf died early. He has been anxious to find Sansa, and nothing Arya says on the matter has been able to calm him properly.)

"The pack is searching for her as we speak. I intend to send a letter to our brother Jon at the Wall as well – I understand he is the Lord Commander now. Is there anything else? Very well. Break your fasts, and go about your day as normal. I will see you all at lunch. Maester, steward, I would speak with you this morning once you are free, if you please."

The servants mill about uncertainly, only eating out of a desire to not go without. Arya takes Rickon's hand under the table where no one can see, and gives him a reassuring squeeze. Quietly, Arya questions her baby brother about how well he remembers his letters (very little) and his other lessons from Maester Luwin (even less). His swordplay with Ser Rodrik he remembers bits and pieces of, his archery he remembers better only due to Osha's tutelage. Thanks to Osha, he is instead quite skilled at the pike, and Arya askes him if he would like to learn the staffwork she had been taught in Braavos. By the end of the meal, Arya has decided that she will help Rickon and Osha both with their letters and numbers during mealtimes, and would just let Rickon learn everything else by doing throughout the day.

After breakfast, for example, she has the steward and Maester walk the three of them through an inventory of Winterfell's stores, and uses this to help teach Rickon how much food is needed for how many people for how long – planning long-term, and for more than a handful of people, is an almost foreign concept to him after living as a Wildling for so long. With the Maester, they have to carefully word the letters that they want to send to Jon at the Wall, and to the Lords of the North, and figure out just how much information they want to share with their Lords – and of course, there is the issues of inheritance, since Arya has beheaded the Lords of Karhold, Last Hearth, and Barrowtown.

"The Greatjon died protecting Robb," Arya tells Rickon, pointing to The Twins on a map of the Seven Kingdoms. "Here. Their Holdfast, Last Hearth, is there. Smalljon was next in line after his father. Had he no children, one of his brothers or even one of his sisters would have inherited. The Greatjon's Uncles and their get would have come next. Luckily for us, though, he had a son, Ned, after our father. Did you meet him at all?"

Rickon is scowling at the map, his eyes tracing the lines fiercely to commit the image to memory.

"Aye, he seemed alright – he was more scared of his father than anything. I could smell fear on him all the time. He would sneak in to the dungeons to speak to me. He said I was the rightful leigelord, and that his father shouldn't have done what he did."

Arya nods approvingly. "Good. We'll write to him to let him know that he is the new Lord, and have his father's bones sent back as a sign of good faith. We'll keep the head, though, as a warning."

Rickon gives her a wolf grin, all teeth, and asks about the Karstarks.

Arya points to the Riverlands. "This is Riverrun, where Mother was born. This is the Karhold. Rickard Karstark, the last Lord, killed prisoners Robb was going to ransom, so Robb took his head. Rickard's elder sons, Harrion and Torrhen, both died fighting for Robb. Old Rickard had a brother and nephews that the title could pass to, but Harald had a daughter, Alys."

"She's next in line?" Rickon asked.

"Aye. We'll write to her too, but we might have her come to Winterfell and swear allegiance to the Starks before we make her the Lady."

"Should we have Ned come too?"

Chewing her lip, Arya nods. "It's for the best. We can't let it look like we're favouring the Umbers, or letting them get off easy, either."

"You took their Lord's head," Rickon said, puzzled.

"It might be considered a favour, and we could be called weak for not following through and making sure the right oaths are sworn. We can't trust in people's good nature, Rickon, even in the North. You can't pick a monster just by looking at them."

Her baby brother nods in understanding, furrows his brow and asks, "What about the lady you killed?"

"Barbrey Dustin of Barrowtown. Here. She felt slighted because Uncle Brandon was betrothed to Mother, even though she gave him her maidenhead, and then Father married Mother when Uncle Brandon died. Her husband died protecting Father during Robert's Rebellion, and instead of bringing back her husband's bones, Father only returned his horse. He died before they could have any heirs, and his brothers also died fighting for Father…" Arya trails off, and tries to remember her Houses as best she can. I wish Sansa was here for this, she thought. She was always the best at this!

"House Dustin was one of the oldest in the North," She finally said. "They say they came from the First King of the First Men, and from the Barrow Kings who followed. We'll have to look through the lineage books to see if there aren't any left through the female line."

"So another House will take over?"

"Almost. The new heir, if we can find one, will take the Dustin name. If the Lady Barbrey's goodfather had any sisters or nieces, we'll see if those women had any second sons or daughters, and then see if they had any children. If we're lucky, there'll be a daughter or younger son who will be happy to run Barrowtown for us."

"And the Dreadfort?"

"By law it belongs to Sansa as Ramsey's widow. If she doesn't want it, they say that Jon let Wildlings over the Wall, they can have it."

"They won't want it," Osha pipes up. "The Free Folk have no holdings with holdfasts."

"Even the King?" Arya asks, curious. "Mance something, wasn't it?"

"Mance Rayder. Stannis killed him though, it's said."

"There isn't another King?"

"Not that I've heard. Besides, I can't see too many of 'em wanting to live inside them stone walls."

"Winter is coming," Arya shrugs. "I'm sure they won't mind it too terribly, for a little while."

"My lady, my lord," Maester Wolkan begins hesitatingly. "There is also the issue of inheritance to Castle Hornwood."

"Hornwood?" Arya demanded. "What happened there?"

"Lord Ramsay was married to the widowed Lady Hornwood," Wolkan said delicately. "She, ah, did not – "

"She died?" Arya asked bluntly. "How?"

"She starved, my lady," Wolkan whispered. "Though her marriage was legal in the eyes of men and gods, and her will named Lord Ramsay as her heir."

Arya's eyes narrowed. "So you're saying that Sansa is heir to the Dreadfort, Hornwood Castle, and Winterfell? Seven hells, no, she'd go mad. There was a Hornwood bastard, wasn't there?"

"Yes, my lady!"

"Does he live?"

"Yes – he was fostered at Deepwood Motte until the Ironborn attacked, and then was kept prisoner until the Motte was recovered."

Arya nods quickly. "Bring me pen and paper, ravens and a book of genealogy, please. Now."

The Maester practically runs away, and Rickon turns to her curiously. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to summon the Hornwood bastard here too so that we can meet him, and make him the Lord. We'll have to see if he's been educated first, and send ravens to find out what sort of state Hornwood is in."

"How much food, and everything?" Rickon tries. Arya smiles at him and ruffles his hair affectionately. He grins back at her, then frowns and asks, "But, can you do that? Make a Bastard the Lord?"

"Ramsay was Lord here, wasn't he?"

"He was legitimised by the King," Osha said from where she was cleaning her nails with a dagger. "Or something."

"We can't exactly write to him, now can we?" Arya scowls.

"Your brother was King," Osha offers. "Doesn't that mean one of you are … something?"

Arya freezes. "… yes. We were called prince and princess before. Rickon, you're the boy – want to be King?"

"Nope," her brother says carelessly, picking his nose. "You can be the next King."

Arya makes a high-pitched noise in the back of her throat.

"You Southerners like symbols though," Osha mused, inspecting her cleaned nails. "You'll need a crown."

"Robb had one, didn't he?" Rickon pipes. "Wear his."

"It'll be at the Twins," Arya says. "… I'll wait for Shaggy and the Hound to come, and try and teach you as much as I can first, and then I'll go to get it. It shouldn't take more than a week if I ride Nymeria there."

"Take some of the pack with you too." Rickon says firmly.

"I won't need them. I'm going to poison the Freys, not battle them."

"We have a cousin there though, don't we?"

"Aye, apparently. What, do you want me to retake Riverrun too?"

There is a light in Rickon's eyes that she had seen in Robb and Jon's in the practice yard; in Sansa's when she was trying to master a new stitch or song; in Bran's when he was trying to figure out how to get to the newest heights; in her own, she was sure, when she was looking at how to get away with her next bit of unladylike behaviour. It was calculating, sly, and wolfish. It was hungry. "Give half of the pack back to the Riverlands. Have vengeance on the Freys' who killed our family, and leave someone of your picking in charge of the Twins and loyal to Riverrun. Give Uncle Edmure back his wife and son, and allow them a chance to remove the Lannisters from their lands. Get Robb's crown, and come back in time to deal with the Lords."

Arya's returning smile was vicious. "Careful, little brother. They'll call you the Cunning Wolf before you know it. Alright then. Two days for Shaggy and Clegane to arrive, and then I'll go. Ah, Maester Wolkan! Just on the table there."

"My lady, you won't have me write it?" The Maester asked, shocked.

"What's the point of knowing how to read and write, if I don't do it myself?" Arya scoffed. "Rickon, here. We'll write to the Umbers first they're furthest away – Maester, a seal, please?"

"At once, my lady!"

Nymeria had left him near a week ago with a monstrous black direwolf stuck full of arrows, three regular wolves, the five half-grown pups, and forty-seven dogs. Sandor wasn't overly impressed, especially when it became apparent that the whole reason he had been brought North was so he could play nursemaid to the black beast.

Once the arrows were out, the great direwolf had taken a day to recover, and then seemed ready to head back down to Winterfell. One of the dogs had, somehow, fetched a sturdy horse that had tolerated the wolves enough for Sandor to hop on it and match the pack's speed. It had taken eight days all told, but finally the walls of Winterfell were before them, surrounded by that pack of hundreds. Another member of the pack – one of the wolves who had left with Nymeria – was waiting for them with a big doggie grin on it's face. With a low yip, the new wolf led them straight up the road and through the fucking gates, and waiting for them was the she-wolf herself – both of them.

"Shaggy!" A tall boy-child with Tully-red curls launches himself at the monstrous direwolf, and the pair fall over in a cacophony of giggles, growls and human snarls.

There's a dry snort from behind him, and there's the wolf-girl, leaning up against her own direwolf. She's not grown much since he last saw her, though Sandor can see that she has put weight on from finally receiving regular meals, and for now has left behind her skeletal thinness from their time in the Riverlands.

"Thank you for looking after Shaggydog, even though Nymeria didn't exactly give you much to work with."

"What, did the beast talk to you?" He scoffs.

Arya smirks at him. "Something like that. I have another favour to ask of you, though."

He sneers at her. "Why should I? I asked you for a favour once that you didn't return."

Arya looks at him with those hard Stark-grey eyes. The anger that had once defined her was not present – her face was blank, only a very faint shimmer of humour tucked in the corner of her eyes.

"You asked me for the gift of the Many Faced God." Arya agrees. "I did not give it to you. I decided that if you were meant to die, you would, and if you didn't, then I would take you off of my list."

"How generous," He snarls.

"There are only three names left," Arya continues to keep that calm look on her face, one hand buried in Nymeria's fur and the other resting lightly on her Needle's hilt. "Cersei Lannister, Walder Frey, and Gregor Clegane."

This is a much smaller list than he is used to hearing from her. He had heard stories when he was recovering with Septon Rae, and decides to pry a little. "They say Meryn Trant died in Braavos."

"In a whorehouse," Arya says brightly. "Belly stuck full of holes, both eyes gutted, and his throat slit at the last moment."

"It was you?" He asks curiously – he remembers her anger at missing the chance to kill Joffrey, and knew that Trant had also been someone she desperately wanted to kill herself.

"Aye, it was. I'll tell you about it over some ale later, if you want." She straightens, and says, "I need my horse back first, though."

"This nag? A dog brought it to me."

"The pack are loyal to Nymeria, and by extension to me. That horse was a gift, it'll need to be returned eventually." One of the pups is sniffing at the end of her cloak curiously; she bends down to let it sniff her hand, and to ruffle behind its' ears. "That favour I need – I'll put you in back in contact with my sister, so long as you help protect my baby brother for me while I'm gone."

"Where're you going? How long?"

"Shouldn't be more than a week, but Rickon knows how to check for an actual date if I'm gone to long." Picking up a set of saddlebags by her feet, Arya moves towards him, her great wolf at her heels. She and the wolf both loosed a loud howl, answered by the wolves. Half of the pack that had been around the castle separated from the rest and ran South; Arya looked him in the eye, expression suddenly fierce. "Look after Rickon. I'll be back as soon as I can. The rest of the pack are searching for Sansa, and will let Shaggy know what they find. Don't die on me." She punched his shoulder affectionately, ruffled her little brother's hair as she moved out of the courtyard, and swung herself atop Nymeria. "Winter is coming, Rickon! Osha, Sandor, look after him!"

The great direwolf wheeled away, a second howl echoing eerily off of the masonry and around the moors.

Sandor turns to look at the boy beside him, and decided to try again. "Where's she going?"

"I'll tell you over lunch," Rickon says, his face an obvious copy of his sister's blank mask. "Come on – you like chicken? Arya had some prepared for you."

Until Samwell Tarly's return to act as Maester of the Night's Watch, the Lord Commander, Eddison Tollet, had taken it upon himself to look after the ravens. Typically a job for the stewards, Edd was doing it to make sure that he actually received the letters coming through.

Jon, his sister and the Wildlings had all left two days, and it looked as though they had gone just before something truly interesting could come their way.

Edd was opening and reading all of the ravenscrolls. After Jon's departure, a letter had come addressed to him from Winterfell – Edd had assumed it was some other piece of piss from Ramsay Bolton, except for the Direwolf seal on the outside in black wax. Once he was safely back in the Commander's office, Edd had gone through the correspondence that was meant for him – promises of men from some of the Northern Lords, and queries about whether it was true that Jon Snow had let Wildlings past the Wall – before finally opening the letter for Jon.

Ghost, Lady

In Winter we must protect ourselves; look after one another. First lesson: stick them with the pointy end. Come home – Lady, you have quite a bit of inheritance.

Nymeria and Shaggydog

Once upon a time, Jon had told Edd and their friends about the direwolf pups he had discovered, and how they had matched up against himself and his trueborn siblings. Grey Wind, Lady, Nymeria, Summer, Shaggydog, and Ghost the odd-one-out. In a literal sense, if someone wanted a very basic code that only the Starks and their very closest allies could understand, this was the way to go about it. Edd assumed that the other bits about Winter and lessons were references to things only the Starks themselves would know, as confirmation that whoever had written the letter was who they claimed to be – the Lady Arya, most like. Jon's favourite sibling, who no-one had heard about since Ned Stark's execution.

This was definitely something Edd had to pass on – the only trouble was, where on earth had Jon and Sansa gone after the Wildling camp?!