Hers Is The Fury

Last Stark Returns

[Winterfell - Gate]

A soft whisper of wind rustled through the ancient oak trees, their gnarled branches stretching out like bony fingers towards the heavens. Snowflakes danced in the air, twirling and spinning as they floated gently to the ground, transforming the lush green landscape of Winterfell into a winter wonderland. The air was crisp and cold, biting at Arya's nose and ears as she made her way towards the castle. Her steps were measured and deliberate, each footfall sinking into the soft, powdery snow. She wore the clothes of a commoner now, a threadbare cloak draped over her shoulders, a hood pulled up to shield her face from the biting wind. Her sword, needle, hung at her side, its handle wrapped in worn leather. The weight of it felt reassuring, familiar.

Arya approached the main gate on foot where two guards were huddled by a brazier getting warm.

She had fled the House of Black and White in Braavos after killing the waif. She had gotten a head start, but knew eventually the Faceless Men were bound to come for her.

One of the men noticed Arya walking to the gate and approached her. "Hey, oh. Where are you going?"

"In there. I live here."

"Fuck off."

"I'm Arya Stark. This is my home."

Both men looked at each and started laughing.

"Arya Stark is dead." The first said.

"Send for Maester Luwin or Ser Rodrick. They'll tell you who I am."

"There's no Rodrick here." The second told her.

"Maester's name is Wolkan.

"Go ask Jon Snow then. He's my brother."

"He's a thousand miles away."

"It's cold. We're busy. So, you know, best fuck off." The second added.

Unperturbed by their disbelief, Arya turned away and slipped through a small postern gate, making her way down the slope towards the crypts below Winterfell. The air grew colder and more still as she descended, and soon the only sound was the faint sigh of the wind whistling through the carved stone arches. The crypts were dimly lit by flickering torches, casting long, eerie shadows across the rows of tombs. Arya walked slowly down the aisle, her boots echoing softly on the flagstones, her eyes scanning the names etched into the marble slabs. Here lay her ancestors, Starks, their tombs adorned with faded banners and moldering wreaths, and stone direwolves. She paused before the statue of her father, Ned Stark, his features serene and noble, his sword, Ice, resting at his side.

Tears welled up in her eyes as she placed her hand on the cold marble. "Father," she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. "I'm sorry I couldn't avenge you. I'm sorry I couldn't save your life. I'll never forgive myself for leaving you to die." She felt a hand on her shoulder, and turned to find Sansa and her mother, Catelyn, standing behind her. They both looked at her with expressions of disbelief and joy, their eyes red from tears.

"Arya," Sansa breathed, her voice barely audible. "It's really you."

Tears streamed down Catelyn's face as she threw her arms around her youngest daughter. "Oh, Arya, we've been so worried. We didn't know what had become of you. We thought you were..."

Arya hugged her mother back just as tightly, grateful for the feeling of her strong arms around her. She glanced over at Sansa, who was watching them with a mixture of happiness and sadness. "It's good to be home," she whispered.

And it was. She hadn't been home in years.

All three of them turned to the statue of their father, or in Catelyn's case, husband.