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Arya had never been so cold in her life.

The fire that crackled to her right kept her warm enough to stay alive, but the bitter cold lapped at her fingers and toes like a dog starved of water. She didn't remember how long she'd been in the snow, it could have been two days, a week, maybe more. The days were dark and the nights even more so.

Arya hummed in thought and rubbed her gloved hands together for warmth. Maybe The Hound was right when he told her she'd die on her own. She almost died when she was No One. She had almost in King's Landing all those years ago.

However, she remembered, she'd killed Meryn Trant for killing her dance instructor. She had killed Polliver for poor Lommy, and the filthy man Rorge. She had killed Walder Fray for taking her mother and brother, her new sister and their child.

She didn't die - she had been faced with death so many times she couldn't count them all, and she'd lived. The Starks of Winterfell, she thought proudly of her family, hard to kill.



Arya winced when her stomach growled.

The gnawing pain of hunger had almost consumed her a handful of times during her travels. She had learned from her mistakes, and when she met Hot Pie she asked for as much food as he could spare.

She dug into her pack for something to eat - she still had some cheese and a small piece of bread. She picked off a small piece of bread and chewed it, lost in her thoughts.

She must be close, she knew, to her home. She'd been riding for too many days to keep count, but she knew these woods. She knew she was nearly home.

Winterfell.

She had heard The Hound tell Brienne that it was gone, a pile of rubble. Was it true or just something he'd said so he could ransom her to some other noble house that had sworn banners to her father?

But Jon was in Winterfell, she remembered Hot Pie's words. He was King in the North.

Her stomach leap with anticipation, desperate to see her brother once more Even if she had no home to go back to, she still had at least one member of her family left.

She hadn't heard of Sansa, Bran, Rickon or Marien's wellness, but she prayed to every God she knew that they still lived.

Sansa, with her needlepoint and tales of knights and true love - Arya hardly thought Sansa still clung so desperately onto tales such as those with what she had endured at the hands of Joffery and his men during their captivity in King's Landing.

And her brother Bran's love of climbing had come to a bitter end when he fell from the window, and with it, Arya knew, his childhood had been cut short.

Her youngest sibling Rickon, her sweet little brother with his love of all things wild. She wondered if Shaggydog, the most wild of all the direwolves, kept him safe as the Bolton's ravaged their home. Maybe he'd found refuge in his beloved forest, she hoped.

She thought of Marien, her eldest sister that had stayed behind to help her mother with Bran after his fall, and to watch over and mother Rickon as if he were her own child.

Marien had become Lady of Winterfell when Robb marched off to his death, taking their mother with him. Like father always said, Arya thought bitterly, there must always be a Stark in Winterfell.

Arya wrapped the bread back in it's cloth after she'd ate her fill and placed her pack down beside her. She curled up next to the fire on the cold ground, her pack acting as a pillow, and tried to get some sleep.



Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

Footsteps to the left, Arya calculated. One person, not heavy by the sound of it. An easy kill most likely.

Even in her sleep deprived state Arya had conditioned herself to keep her sword by her side. With her eyes still closed her hand moved toward Needle, her grip on the handle as strong as the steel itself.

"Drop your weapon," a voice commanded her, "and I'll spare your life."

Arya's eyes opened, in the light of the fire a woman stood with a dagger in each hand ready for Arya to make a move. Arya recognized her instantly - and dropped Needle as if were on fire. Brown hair fell down in waves to the woman's waist, the same color of Arya's, and eyes of sage glared at her over the flames of the fire.

Arya knew Marien hadn't seen her face. They were close, Marien would never hurt her.

Arya stood slowly, her hands raised in submission, tears blurring her vision.

"Marien?"

She saw the woman's hands falter slightly, her large eyes becoming somehow wider. "Arya?"

Marien's voice left her in a breathless whisper. Quickly and quietly she sheathed her daggers and strode toward her youngest sister. Arya matched her steps and jumped when she was near enough, landing in her older sisters open arms. The girls stayed in their tight embrace for what seemed like hours, both crying onto the other, whispering sweet words into the cold, winter air.

"My sweet sister," Marien cooed, her voice cracking violently. "I've missed you, Arya. Thank the Old Gods and the New you still live. Where have you been?"

Arya pulled back to look into Marien's eyes. "It doesn't matter, I'm nearly home now."

"You're just a few miles outside the gates," Marien confirmed. "I was to venture out with a group of Wildlings to find food for those who remain in Winterfell."

"Those who remain?" Arya asked quietly. "Is Jon still there?"

Marien shook her head somberly. "No, he's gone to Dragonstone to meet with Daenerys Targaryen. Sansa is with us, still."

"Bran and Rickon," Arya inquired immediately, "are they there as well?"

Marien's eyes fell downward as she sighed. She clutched Arya's cold hands in her own and squeezed them tightly. "Come with me, sister, and I'll take you home. We have much to discuss."