[Chapter Size: 3800 Words.]

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Third Person POV

North, 297 AC.

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The situation in Winterfell seemed a bit hectic in recent days. Lord Stark had received a direct letter from White Harbor with the following words:

“I am in the North again. I am coming to Winterfell in the next few days.

Signed, Arya.”

Ned was surprised by the letter from his daughter, almost unable to believe it after so many months since the sighting of a small group of Arctic ships returning north, without further news of the fleet in the south.

Though he was happy to receive her, knowing his daughter was finally here, another letter soon arrived providing more details from the Lord of White Harbor. It informed him that his daughter had stayed at House Manderly for a day and was accompanied by Unsullied, something the Lord of Winterfell did not know what to make of. After all, slavery was forbidden in Westeros. Even with Lord Wyman Manderly asserting that the men were free and served Arya of their own will, the idea still seemed complicated. However, he decided to leave this matter to address personally. First, he had to have his daughter back home.

Setting that concern aside, Ned decided to inform his family during dinner that night. Everyone seemed stunned by the news that Arya was finally returning. Sighs of relief echoed among the siblings upon hearing that Arya was coming home at last.

Catelyn seemed happy, breaking into a smile that had not been seen for a long time. “Our daughter is finally coming back,” she said with emotion.

Ned was also eager to see Arya again after more than seven years. However, he regretted that Jon would not be with her. Their last conversation, almost two years ago, had not ended well, and he wanted to make amends. He hoped for that opportunity someday.

In the following days, he decided he would not wait for Arya to come to Winterfell. He decided to go meet her instead. Ned planned to bring her back with his own escort after finding her halfway.

Leaving his solar at that moment, he stepped out the door to find the captain of his guard waiting for him. “Is everything ready, Jory?” he asked.

“Yes, my lord. Everything is prepared for your departure,” the guard replied with a nod.

“Good. Let’s move forward then,” Ned ordered.

Upon reaching the castle entrance, in front of the courtyard where his family was already waiting, Bran quickly exclaimed upon seeing him, “Father, can I go too?”

Ned shook his head at his son, denying the request. “No, Bran. You’ll stay this time. But I promise you can come with us next time,” he said.

Bran sighed, visibly disappointed. “Yes, Father…” he murmured, resigned.

Ned looked at Catelyn, who gazed at him hopefully. “Bring our daughter back,” she said, seeming afraid Arya might flee again.

“I will,” he replied firmly. Despite the challenges between them in recent years, they both agreed that Arya being in Winterfell was something worth fighting for together.

Sansa stood nearby but said nothing, accompanied by her usual friends. However, she didn’t seem displeased with the idea of Arya returning to Winterfell.

Leaving his family behind, Ned walked to where the horses were ready. In the courtyard, a group of fifty men was gathered, prepared to meet Arya halfway. Robb stood nearby, adjusting his saddle, ready to use this opportunity to accompany his father and the guards, along with Theon.

Ned mounted his horse, turned toward the entrance of Winterfell, and looked at his men. “Let’s go!” he ordered before urging his horse into a gallop. The group departed, leaving Winterfell behind as they headed south.

At the same time, Arya’s group was also traveling north, a journey that would take several days, given the 500 or 600 kilometers separating them. Arya was accustomed to wearing her Eldenmetal armor, with Dark Sister resting on her back, mounted on Nymeria, who also wore armor like Jon’s direwolf. Four other direwolves roamed the area, brought from the ship as well, since Arya had her warg connection with all of them.

Wendel was always with his men, observing the girl with various thoughts. Yet what always struck them was noticing that Arya was always prepared for a fight, no matter if they were in the middle of the North, her family’s lands.

But he didn’t know that since Volantis, Arya had been much more cautious about everything. No matter where she went, she had her animals patrol and keep watch to ensure no attack could come her way.

Meanwhile, the Unsullied marched right behind her, also maintaining a rhythm of readiness for any attack as Arya had instructed.

“You seem thoughtful…” her royal guard’s voice was heard again beside her.

“You keep asking that question?” Arya asked calmly, looking at the scenery ahead as they continued their march northward.

“He expects our princess to keep chatting away… but you are far quieter than you used to be,” the royal guard said, glancing at the girl.

“…”

Wendel, standing a bit farther away, watched their interaction with curiosity but said nothing.

“…”

Arya simply smiled. She was constantly reflecting on her life and how she would reunite with her family, growing slightly nervous as they drew closer with each passing day.

What had she experienced over these years? She had learned to embroider in a way that would humble Septa and Sansa, gained profound knowledge of the mind that could perhaps turn Luwin into her pupil, developed a sharp intellect capable of outmatching her parents in debate, and trained to fight like a true warrior, capable of besting any sword in Winterfell.

Thanks to Jon’s potions, she was already as strong and fast as an adult man. Though unsure if she could defeat her father, she was confident she could overcome Rodrik, Winterfell’s master-at-arms.

She was no longer the little girl who had fled Winterfell and nearly died in a storm while chasing after Jon. She had gone to Artica, where she learned things she had never imagined—knowledge only a maester might access, or the freedom to wield a weapon like a noble’s son would. She had even excelled at things she once thought were beyond her, like dancing, etiquette, poetry, and singing—skills the septa used to praise Sansa for, while Arya had been the black sheep, mocked as horse-faced by others in the past.

She had to take pride in what she had become. She was an excellent rider, even if she now rode a fierce wolf instead of a horse. She had learned to command, negotiate, and read people’s intentions. Beyond that, she had become a powerful warg and gained experiences few in the world could claim.

She had visited nearly every corner of the known world, ridden horses, wolves, bears, panthers, and even dragons. She had fought giants—in the occasional training sessions organized by her brother—White Walkers, and samurai in Yi-Ti. She had left behind a considerable trail of the dead since she began fighting in Volantis, where she had taken her first life. She doubted anyone her age had ended as many lives as she had.

She had left Wendel Manderly deeply astonished when she mentioned all the places she had visited: Dorne, the Reach, the Citadel, Lannisport, Braavos, Pentos, Myr, Tyrosh, Volantis, the Slaver Cities of Meereen, Yunkai, and Astapor, the secluded Yi-Ti, the fiery Valyria, the freezing lands beyond the Wall, and the magical city of Artica. There were few places left where she had not set foot.

She also spoke five languages fluently. Arya felt prepared for the world, thanks to Jon’s teachings. She could survive in any environment, defend herself, and was nearly unshakable. She now had her own soldiers, whom she had freed and who had pledged their loyalty without her asking. They were now her men, and she commanded them.

Her brother had said she should remain in the North for at least a year. Despite missing her parents, Arya didn’t want to stay there. Westeros seemed colorless compared to Artica, where people didn’t judge, weren’t deceitful, and didn’t let greed control their decisions.

In Artica, there were always the cheerful dwarves, playful adventures in the wolf forests and fields, horseback rides, flying on Eragon alongside Jon through the city, playful moments with Wind, feasts at any time, and battles in the coliseum. That was her freedom, her true home, where she felt she belonged.

Everything seemed ordinary on their journey until Arya’s eyes turned white. She was a very powerful warg, capable of controlling a dozen animals, many of them direwolves, though she lacked Jon’s ability to see through his animals without losing awareness of his original body.

As her eyes returned to normal, she narrowed them, turning back toward her royal guards and Grey Worm, who noticed her change. One of her animals had called her, and she had seen through its eyes.

“I found a bandit camp nearby. It’s close to Winterfell. We can’t leave them while we’re passing through here,” Arya informed them. The guards exchanged glances before nodding at her—after all, Arya had the authority to command them.

“What did you say, Lady Arya?” Wendel approached, worried upon hearing Ned’s daughter speak.

“I’m saying there are bandits hiding in the nearby forest. I saw them spying on us as we passed, and one of my wolves tracked them to their hideout. There are at least 30 men. They’ve likely been ambushing trade wagons along the King’s Road in my father’s lands… so it’s better if we act now,” Arya said in a tone of authority.

“But Lady Arya… shouldn’t we leave this to your father? We’re close to Winterfell now,” Wendel murmured, offering advice.

“We can’t miss the chance to catch them, Lord Manderly. Besides, there are 30 bandits. Have you noticed how many men we have at our disposal?” She raised an eyebrow, challenging him, leaving Wendel unsure how to respond.

Regardless, Arya turned back to her men.

“I want 100 men prepared. That will be enough to enter the forest,” she instructed with a serious tone.

Grey Worm nodded and returned to his troops.

“Attention!” he exclaimed, as the troops began to halt. He selected 100 men, who stepped out of formation and positioned themselves beside the group, awaiting Arya’s orders.

Lord Manderly could only watch in silence, unsure what to say, as Ned’s daughter moved toward the group with her men, issuing commands that the adult royal guards from Artica obeyed without hesitation.

“Lady Arya, you can’t possibly be thinking of entering the forest with your men?” he asked, fearing the idea of a 14 or 15-year-old girl leading an assault on a bandit camp.

“I am well-guarded by my men, Lord Manderly. You can wait here; we’ll handle this and return shortly,” Arya said, brushing off his concerns.

She simply proceeded toward the forest, her men following on foot, as the terrain was too difficult for mounted travel. Her direwolves followed closely behind.

“So that’s what you saw—a large group on the main road…” one of the scouts commented as his men returned from surveying the area.

“Yes… they carried Manderly banners, but also another unfamiliar one that we don’t recognize,” he explained. The Artican banner might have been known in port cities, but within the northern lands, the Artican name was all most people could identify, carried through stories over the years.

But the scout hadn’t finished. He continued, “There are also many men among them—a strange force, with men whose skin is darker than anyone’s in the North. They must be from Essos…” he reported, noting the unusual ethnicity for the region, suggesting visitors from the neighboring continent.

“There’s also a giant wolf ridden by a girl…” another scout added.

“A giant wolf? What nonsense is this now?” the leader of the bandits scoffed, finding his men’s words absurd.

“It’s true!” the first man insisted. “It was wearing armor!” he exclaimed.

“Get out of my sight. I don’t want to hear this kind of nonsense,” the leader growled, unwilling to entertain such absurdities. “We won’t attack this group, then. After all, we’re only 30 men. Post others to watch the main road—without the ridiculous tales—and let’s wait for a more suitable target. Our contact wants some women, so we’ll stay here for a few more days before attacking a village,” he said finally. Despite the North’s reputation for security, banditry was a common practice across all of Westeros’ kingdoms.

The bandits remained in their small camp, unaware that a wolf, undetected by any of their sentries, was now circling their camp through the forest. Meanwhile, Arya’s group was closing in.

Wendel Manderly decided to follow Arya into the forest with a few men, trying to catch up with her. As they ventured deeper into the woods, the sounds of battle reached their ears, prompting them to hurry.

When Wendel arrived at the scene, he saw Arya Stark had not been lying. An intense battle was underway between the two groups at first glance. But as he moved closer, it looked more like a one-sided massacre. The Unsullied were advancing effortlessly, killing the bandits in the camp without mercy or fear. They moved as an unstoppable force, making Wendel understand why the Unsullied were so renowned, even in Westeros.

What was equally terrifying, however, were the giant wolves that had disembarked from the Artican ship to follow Arya north. As the ship departed the harbor, these wolves had begun tearing through the bandits. Even as the men begged for their lives, they were mercilessly mutilated.

Arya was in the middle of the fray, standing over at least three bodies. Her armor was stained with blood as she approached one of her royal guards, who had captured the bandit leader.

“My lord…” one of the guards murmured, but Manderly raised his hand to silence him. There was nothing left to discuss. He could only watch as Ned’s daughter resolved the situation.

“There are women imprisoned, Princess Arya,” Grey Worm reported after searching the camp.

“Release them. We’ll take them with us. Also, gather all documents and evidence from these bandits. Burn the bodies. I want 50 soldiers to remain here to guard the site; my men and my father must inspect it,” Arya ordered as everyone began to obey her commands.

After a while, Arya returned to the road with a few captured bandits who had survived the fight, now bound for trial. She left 30 men behind, ensuring one spoke the Common Tongue to communicate with the Stark men who would come to inspect the evidence.

Wendel said nothing, keeping a cautious gaze fixed on the girl. She had killed three people in the fight—something hard to reconcile. Hearing of her feats was one thing; witnessing them was another. She had truly taken lives, fighting adult men head-on at her age.

Returning to the main group, they continued down the principal road toward the heart of the North.

A day later, after setting camp for the night, with the Articans attending to Arya’s every need, she saw through an owl she had brought with her that her father’s group was approaching. A small smile crossed her face.

Once again, Wendel was astonished as Arya ordered everyone to halt near a higher hill. She instructed the Unsullied to take the lead and prepare for battle. They quickly assumed her orders, marching into position and forming four square formations of 150 men each, standing in front of the rest of the group.

“What are you doing, Lady Arya? Are we under attack or something?” Wendel asked, visibly concerned as he watched the men prepare for battle, seemingly bracing for something to come over the hill along the road.

“Not necessarily, Lord Manderly. I’m just going to greet the people who’ve come to receive us,” Arya replied with a cheerful smile, as if it were all a grand game to her.

At that moment, the entire Stark group ascended the hill in search of Arya. But even with the Stark banners flying among the group, the sight of 600 Unsullied armed with spears and shields, seemingly awaiting them, left them utterly stunned.

The men came to an abrupt halt, their faces frozen in surprise, while Lord Stark looked on, his eyes wider than they had ever been.

“What is this? Stop, everyone!” Lord Stark shouted to his men, his voice cautious as he gazed at the formation ahead. There was no sign of Arya in the front lines; she was still behind, with Wendel watching anxiously. He could only observe as Arya began walking forward with a smile, weaving her way between the ranks of Unsullied.

“[Umbagon iā skoros perzys!]” she exclaimed in bastard Valyrian, ensuring her men could understand her. Her feminine voice rang out across the 600 soldiers with more effort than Jon might have needed, but Arya remained firm, delivering her commands with clarity. Unsheathing her sword, she pointed it toward the Stark group.

As soon as she issued her orders, the Unsullied immediately assumed battle positions. Each soldier raised their shield and placed their spear at its edge, ready to attack.

Even the Stark horses appeared unnerved by the display. Ned tried to speak. “Arya!” he called out, his voice desperate as he recognized the feminine tone but could not see her.

Arya ignored her father, still smiling as she continued. “[Vezof mantagon!!]” she commanded once more. The Unsullied began advancing in perfect unison, their weapons still raised.

“Lord Stark!” Stark soldiers cried out in panic at the advancing force, while the Unsullied steadily marched toward them.

“…” Lord Stark appeared lost, unsure if his daughter was truly commanding an attack against them. He couldn’t understand what she was saying to the Unsullied.

To his relief, Arya seemed to end her game, raising her voice once more. “[Kesan!]” she ordered in bastard Valyrian, and the Unsullied halted their advance.

“[Umbagon iā ēza perzys!!]” she added. Instantly, all the men lifted their spears and lowered their shields, standing at ease as they awaited further instructions.

The Stark men exchanged bewildered looks before hearing the same authoritative voice again—but this time in the Common Tongue.

“I am Arya Stark, daughter of Eddard Stark, Lord of the North and these lands. I demand you identify yourselves and come no closer, or my men will attack!” Her voice echoed, far louder than Lord Stark could have imagined coming from his once-quiet daughter.

“[Umbagon iā bēvilza!]” Arya commanded, pointing her sword forward. Her 600 soldiers advanced another step, shouting a war cry as Nymeria began growling beneath Arya, standing among the Unsullied.

Eddard, visibly shaken, watched his men falter in fear. Taking a step forward, he shouted louder than his lungs would usually allow. “ARYA, IT’S ME, YOUR FATHER!” His desperate plea carried across the field.

Arya smiled at the sound of her father’s voice, realizing she might have taken the joke a bit too far.

“[Umbagon iā skoros! Geltī iotāeks iā nyke!]” she called out once more in bastard Valyrian. The Unsullied not only returned to their original stance but also parted to create a pathway for Arya. She rode Nymeria forward through the formation until she emerged in front of the Stark group, maintaining a faint, reserved smile.

“Father?” she called out, feigning surprise.

Eddard and his men stared, unsure if their eyes were deceiving them. Arya sheathed her sword and leapt down from Nymeria. Eddard snapped out of his stunned state, dismounted his horse, and moved toward his daughter.

“Arya…” he murmured, approaching her cautiously, his eyes darting briefly to Nymeria. The massive wolf stepped back at Arya’s gesture, allowing her a clear path to her father as he closed the distance.

Without hesitation, he reached for her, wrapping her in a tight embrace. Arya, after seven long years, embraced him back.

“My little girl… seven years, seven years without seeing you grow up…” he said, his voice filled with emotion. Arya couldn’t hold back her tears, which began streaming down her face; she missed him deeply as well. After all, he was still her father, despite everything.

“By the gods, Arya! How you’ve grown so much and become so beautiful!” Eddard stepped back from the embrace, touching Arya’s face as he took in the changes in her after so many years away from home. It was a shock to him how she had grown into a beautiful woman, reminding him of his late sister Lyanna—but Arya was even more striking than Lyanna had been.

“It’s been a long time, Father…” Arya tried to brush off the sentimentality, though she relished the touch of her father hugging her once more. They both ignored the 600 Unsullied standing silently nearby, awaiting Arya’s orders.

“Robb! It’s true! By the gods, she’s even more beautiful than Sansa now!” A voice broke in from behind Eddard. Arya saw Theon approaching alongside Robb, his face showing shock. She ignored Theon and turned to her brother instead.

“Arya?” Robb said, his voice almost a whisper as he stepped closer. Arya looked at him, noting how he had grown and developed more mature features.

“Robb,” she replied, smiling at her brother. Despite the unresolved feelings she harbored toward him, she decided to set them aside for now. She accepted his approach after seven long years, and Robb embraced her warmly.

“Arya, look at you! All of Westeros will be fighting over who gets to marry you!” Robb said with a smile, holding her tightly. “Arya, what is that sword with the dragon hilt?” he asked, pointing to the weapon on her back.

“This… is the Dark Sister. Jon passed it on to me,” Arya said with pride.

“It’s certainly a beautiful sword,” Ned said as he stood up. There was much to discuss, and the mention of Jon’s name wasn’t warmly received by Robb, who pressed his lips together at Arya’s words. “Let’s save this for when we’re back at Winterfell. Your mother, sister, and brothers are eagerly awaiting your return,” Ned said, to which Arya nodded. She then turned back toward her wolf.

“Nymeria! With me!” Arya commanded, and the direwolf approached, crouching down. Arya climbed onto Nymeria’s back, while her father and brother couldn’t hide their amazement. The sight of a giant wolf being ridden by a Stark brought back memories of Jon’s last visit to Winterfell.

Arya returned to her soldiers and shouted a command in Valyrian. Her troops responded in unison and began marching, while Lord Wendel Manderly moved through the Unsullied with his men and the Artican soldiers to join Arya. The Unsullied would march at the rear of the group.

A small owl landed on Arya’s shoulder at that moment, and she smiled brightly. “Now, let’s head to Winterfell!” Arya declared as the group resumed their march.

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