Greetings folks! This was something just lying around in my head and constantly bugging me and I finally relented and put it on paper (metaphorically). I don't promise consistent updating, I'm more of a go with the flow person rather than stressing over schedules. This is what I guess would be called a 'fix-it fic', you know a little time travel and some deep stuff. This is a Song of Ice and Fire fic so consider yourselves warned.

Disclaimer: None of the characters or any recognizable stuff is mine.

So without further ado,



Nothing. That is what death was like. Whole lot of nothing. Floating around in endless darkness with only your thoughts for company. Torturous thoughts. Like watching some Frey or anther come behind his mother, my dear, precious mother, and cut her throat open. Watching another Frey stabbing at my wife's stomach, killing the little life inside. Feeling arrows pierce the skin. So much pain. So much blood. And then, Lord Bolton coming and putting a hand on my shoulder before the blade pierced my stomach.

The Lannisters send their regards.

The words haunt the images in my mind. It seems to echo throughout the darkness, again and again.

The Lannisters send their regards.

The blood pouring out of mother's throat. Her body slumping down in a heap on the floor.

The Lannisters send their regards.

Jeyne's screams as the knife stabs through the life of our baby.

The Lannisters send their regards.

Arrow after arrow. One in the shoulder, another in the back, the third in my chest.

The Lannisters send their regards.

Lord Bolton's face when he plunges the blade in my stomach and out my back.

The Lannisters send their regards.

Forever haunting me. Those damned words. That damned man. I shouldn't have trusted him. I'm weak, stupid, completely blind-sided. I should have seen it coming from a mile away. I'm a disappointment to the name of Stark. The men crowned me king and I lose the North. I'm worse than Thorren, the king who knelt. The Starks have ruled the North for thousands of years and what do I do? Let it be raided by Iron born, while I'm fighting for vengeance in the fucking south. I practically handed the North over to Bolton, why else would that wile bastard be in on such a plot. He managed something his ancestors have been striving for since the Winter Kings made the Red kings kneel. I should have known that old habits die hard. Especially those you are raised with.

Time is nothing in death. I could have been there for mere minutes or whole years, just watching the images on repeat, the words haunting every one of them. But at some point the loneliness lessened, if just a fraction. A tiny little sense of home lingered in the air. It made the images and the words a little easier to bear. Not much but it was still there.

Then came another change as such. The loneliness lessened a fraction, a scent of home, Winterfell. But the images changed. There were still the same but they were more diverse. Memories, some long forgotten, some newer, some cherished. Finally something good. But I was wrong. The more I saw the more I found that people were lying to me, straight to my face. It was so obvious that I couldn't understand how on earth I didn't see it then. The worst of them being the most persistent:

Prowling around the camp in a dream in the mind of Grey wind. Coming upon Jeyne and her mother fighting furiously in whispers. I couldn't hear what they were saying for the first few times. Bolton's words ringing too loud in my ears.

The Lannisters send their regards.

But as I started hearing more and more from them, I wish I hadn't. Because I knew it wasn't a dream, it was a memory.

"Mother, please, allow me this one thing. I already married the brute, allow him to touch me every night."

Jeyne's voice ringing about the empty darkness. A certain desperation in her voice that I have never heard before. Her words hurt me. Was that really what she thought of me? Or was she simply playing a part for her mother. She never did approve of me. That thought eased the ache somewhat.

"Your marriage isn't secure unless you give him a squealing brat to call an heir. The northern lords are not happy with their king's decision. If you do not show soon they will start to pressure him to put you aside for someone who can, and we cannot allow that. Tywin Lannister will not allow it. Now throw away the tea and go back before he notices you missing."

Tea? What tea? Have to show what soon? That is a memory from two days before she told me she was with child. Wait child? Tea? Moon tea?

"Mother, please…"

She was going to kill our child?

"…allow him to touch me every night."

She didn't love me? She was lying? All this time?

"Tywin Lannister will not allow it."

She was spying for Lannister? How much of a fool can I be?

"…allow him to touch me every night."

The desperation bringing a bitter sound to her beautiful voice. Her words sending thousands of knifes through my heart, ripping it in pieces from the inside. My eyes start to sting and I wonder if I can truly cry if I'm dead.

"…allow him to touch me every night."

Was I truly that wile? Did I not please her enough? Was I not kind or handsome enough? The tortuous thoughts returned with a renewed vigour. Where did I go wrong? Then it hit me. The flicker in Jeyne's eyes to her mother before she said the vows before the Heart tree. She never wanted to marry me. She was repulsed by me from the moment she heard my name. Her being from the south made her to be an excellent liar, putting up a different mask, depending on the circumstances.

Then that feeling came again. Less loneliness, scent of home, tiny little sense of peace. Then before I knew it all my life was passing before my eyes. It played so fast that I had a hard time keeping up but I saw things I never saw before. How much it truly hurt Jon to be ignored by my mother. How cruel Sansa was to Arya. How much we ignored Rickon and he acted out to get attention. How Bran always was a little bit more sullen when Theon mocked him after a bat shot.

Then just as suddenly as it had begun it stopped and I felt this sensation that I was being sucked through a very narrow tunnel. Falling, falling and more falling backwards in the darkness. No memories, no words echoing. Just me falling backwards and screaming silently in terror with no end in sight. Then a voice began to murmur something. A voice I had never heard before, a stern male voice. It got steadily louder but I couldn't quite make them out. A face flashed before my eyes. A grim face. A Stark face. He opened his mouth and spoke but only that voice seemed to be heard, growing louder still.

Suddenly I shot up from bed and to the floor, like a bucket of ice cold water had been thrown over me, screaming bloody murder and faintly hearing similar screams in the distance. I surveyed my surroundings warily, trying to pinpoint where I could be. The room that I saw seemed vaguely familiar, and the more I looked around, the more I panicked.

This was my room in Winterfell. I couldn't be here, this surely is some cruel joke the gods are playing. Theon burned Winterfell, burned my brothers. My breathing got more and more laboured as I heard rushed footsteps outside the door. My eyes darted around the room looking for a weapon but finding none before the door was slammed open. I swung around, facing my attackers and then promptly froze in my tracks.

"What is the matter, lord Robb?" Asked none other than Lord Greatjon Umber, surveying the room for potential threats, with his sword at the ready. I just stared, panic edging closer to the edges of my vision. My laboured breathes turned to gasps and the last thing I saw before being enveloped in darkness once again, was the Greatjon calling for me. What he said, I don't know, instead I heard the voice again, the words ringing clearly in my ears.

"Lead your people, Young Wolf, trust your siblings. Winter is coming."


This is different from before. I suppose I'm dead now. For good. Damn Baratheon. The emptiness of death is a bit disturbing. There is nothing. Only darkness. Floating in this god forsaken place for who knows how long. Of course you can pay attention to the images of your life but I find that I don't care much for it. It only serves to make me miss my siblings more and then I regret never being able to see them again, to the point of physical pain. Death also seems to have a preference to show me my first murder. Over and over again. The words never ceasing to haunt me.

"For the Watch."

I wish I never left for the damned Wall.

"For the Watch."

It has brought me nothing but grief. Nothing but pain.

"For the Watch."

It seemed to go on for ever, chanting that damned phrase. Until it didn't. The chanting stopped. And with the blissful silence came a breeze. A familiar breeze, carrying scents from home. From Winterfell. But that moment didn't last long. More and more flashes of memories seemed to play, continuing in an endless loop. But the more I watched, the more I saw the hidden agenda behind everyone's eyes and it made me so angry that I didn't see it before. The Wall was not the Brotherhood it is made out to be, and that is a real shame.

There it was again. That odd sense of relief and peace settling itself around me like a blanket, protecting me from the cold. But like the cold can seep through the blanket, the pain, anger and grief seeped through the peace. I paid less attention to the memories now. I had enough of my pathetic life. Of course Death wasn't done with me and without warning after a third wave of the peacefulness, I was pulled backwards. I lost my breath and the pressure of the pull was closing in on me like a vice. Never in my life had I been so scared, even knowing that I'm dead did not help. Death kept pulling me, or was I falling? I had no idea what was up and what was down. A voice breached through my panic, echoing throughout the emptiness, the tone firm and foreboding, but soothing. The words were not distinguishable, no matter how I tried. Then out of nowhere a face appeared. A face like my own. Fierce and stern face. He was trying to tell me something. His lips moved but I only heard the other voice. No words just the tone, steadily getting louder.

I catapulted out of bed, screaming my lungs out. The cold air greeting me along with a room from my dreams. My childhood room. This was a definitely a cruel joke if there ever was one. The grey stone walls and the little bed, covered in furs. I started to breathe heavily, the walls closing in on me. I needed to get out. I barrelled out of my room and into the hallway. I stumbled and instantly turned around at the sound of a startled shriek.

A frightened serving girl stood there, clutching the sheets in her hands tightly. More hurried footsteps came down the hallway and the clacking of steel carried. Not long after three guards came into view, weapons at the ready, but that was not what surprised me. Jory Cassel stood there. In flesh. Or maybe it was an illusion. I was starting to shake uncontrollably and found that I had to support myself against the wall, not that it did much.

"Jon, are you alright?"

That is Jory, alright. A million questions came into mind. How? Why? Is my father here? Robb? Sansa? Arya? Bran? Rickon? Are they alright? Or is this a nightmare where I am forced to witness their deaths first-hand? My shaking increased as Jory slowly got closer, lowering his sword.


I couldn't breathe. My lungs had stopped working. I started gasping for breath, trying to stand upright but my body was not cooperating. The panic wrapping itself around me, choking me, and rapidly causing me to pass out. The voice echoing in my head:

"You hold the secret to victory. The lone wolf dies while the pack survives."


I was hoping my torment would stop with death. It was my solace in the capitol, the Eyrie and then with Ramsay. When I die I won't hurt anymore. I was wrong. So wrong. The emptiness that is death brings so much loneliness and hopelessness that it physically hurts. Death was supposed to be merciful, a happy afterlife. But it is not. Far from it. Watching my father get his head cut of was on repeat. Joffrey's voice cutting through the silence, the darkness.

"I will show him mercy."

And my father's head rolls down the steps.

"I will show him mercy."

We walk up to the pikes. The heads rotting. Father, septa Mordane, Jory. So many unnecessary deaths, all because of my own stupidity and selfishness.

"I will show him mercy."

Lady. Poor Lady. I killed her to. I should have told the truth. Arya could maybe forgive me then.

"I will show him mercy."

Arya! Is she still alive? Or do the Lannisters have her to?

Why has the echo stopped? Does it have something to do with that smell? The wonderful smell of home, of Winterfell and freshly baked Lemon cakes. Oh, how I want to see Winterfell again, in its former glory. My home. Not the hollow castle Ramsay and Bolton turned it into. If I could get my hands on Bolton I would strangle him. How dare he? How dare he?! How dare he take away my mother and brother and then my home!

A memory flashes before my eyes. The Eyrie, snow falling and Petyr fucking Baelish. I don't want to hear what he is saying, not wanting anymore of his poison in my brain. Then he kisses me, and I see Aunt Lysa. The image changes to my almost fall out the Moon door. Watching this scene I can see that Littlefinger only wanted competition out of the way. He wanted the Eyrie, push Lysa out the Moon door and he is regent. He wanted mother, she got caught in the crossfire and I'm the next best thing. He wanted more power, sells me to the bastard, Ramsay.

There it comes again, that smell, and a relief of the loneliness, if only a little. I haven't felt so good in weeks, months even. I relish it, bask in the glow of home while it lasts. I doesn't last long, more images flash before my eyes. All of fucking Baelish. And this time I don't escape his voice.

"There are two sorts of people, the players and the pieces"

Why does Death insist on torturing me so? Have I not had enough of it in life?

"Always keep your foes confused. If they are never certain who you are or what you want, they cannot know what you are like do next."

Make him stop! I scream but no sound comes out. I try to block out the sound by putting my hands over my ears.

"There is no justice in this world. Not unless we make it."

What have I done to deserve this? I know I shouldn't have told the Queen about father, I know.

"Chaos is not a pit. Chaos is a ladder."

There it came again that smell, that sweet scent of home, cloaking me in its embrace.

"Look around you. We are all liars here. And every one of us is better than you."

As soon as the last word was uttered it was like I was pushed out the Moon door. I was falling. Fast. Darkness all around me, no images, no memories. Oh, how I wished to see Baelish right now. At least that just hurt, it wasn't scary like this. No, this isn't scary, this is terrifying. Completely and utterly terrifying. A silent scream escapes my lips as I hear a voice. A voice but no words. Is the voice talking to me? Or is it just there to make me another torturous session in a more creative way. The voice gets louder but I still can't distinguish any words and then right above me there appears a face. A face that I have never seen in my life but it is so familiar in so many ways. He moves his lips as if to say something but nothing comes out, only the other voice echoes through the space, piercing the darkness. Then it hits me, a Stark face, and I try in vain to hear what he is saying. If he is a Stark then it must be important, maybe a warning of some kind. But what could he possibly be waring me about, I'm dead.

A horrifying scream tears its way out of my throat and I open my eyes. The furs suffocating me and I fumble out of bed. Then crawling backwards until I hit the wall as I take in the room, still screaming. What kind of horrid hell is this? This looks like… this looks like my chamber back in Winterfell. I distantly hear similar screams to mine but my mind is too preoccupied with processing my rooms. All of a sudden the door is slammed open and it crashes into the wall, bringing out another terrified scream from my throat.

That scream is promptly cut off when my lungs refuse to offer more air at the sight that greets me. There standing with Ice drawn is father. Father looking alive and healthy, inspecting the room quickly for any intruders. Behind him stands a guard, also with a sword drawn and at the ready.

"Sansa, what is the matter."

His voice, it is exactly as I remember it. So soothing and full of love, and now concern.

"Father?" I manage to croak out, my throat raw from screaming and shakily getting to my feet with the help of the table by my side.

I was shaking so bad. I wanted this to be real, to really have father back, to get to hug him and argue with him, anything. I don't care if this is real or not, I have to tell him how sorry I am, how much I love him. I shakily walk over to him and hesitantly lay a hand on his cheek. Father having lowered Ice, at least out of direct offensive.

"You are alive."

I whisper astonished. I don't care if this is an illusion. I have to.


His eyes shine with worry, clearly alarmed by my whisper. I didn't think he would hear. But I have to. My shaking gets worse and tears start to flow down my cheeks. I can feel my vision blackening but I have to. I have to.

"I am sorry." I whimper as I collapse.

I vaguely register the clatter of a sword and being caught before hitting the floor. It is however, the voice that stays with me ringing in my ears:

"You are a player, not a piece. Help your brother, for when you play the game of thrones, you either win or you die."


Death. Strange thing. I've always thought there was more to death than this. There must be a reason why people are so afraid of death. Perhaps it is the loss of freedom to do what you want. You don't do a lot of what you want here, or at least I don't. I would like to be anywhere else, right now. Watching some of my memories is too painful and other fill me with longing for simpler times, which only adds to the ever present loneliness and heat. I hate the heat. Death is supposed to be cold, if only to have a little thing from home.

I surprise myself that the thing I miss most is my mother, but father is close behind. I really regret giving mother so much grief and a hard time. I also miss Sansa, we shouldn't have parted the way we did and that is nagging on my conscience. Jon has always been my favourite brother but seeing Robb with Grey wind's head in place of his own brought back memories of father's execution. I wish Robb had not suffered such a fate. Nor Bran and Rickon. Sweet Bran and wild Rickon. How could that fucking turncloak do something like that? He grew up with us. Robb trusted him! We trusted him! At least Jon is just freezing at the Wall and safe.

A moment later the heat deflated and a cold winter breeze blew by. How I relished in it, images of snow wars and snow angels filling the empty darkness. But it wasn't long until the images turned dark again. It was times like these that it was hard to remember what Syrio taught me.

Nymeria running and the death of Lady. Sansa begging father to reconsider.

"Please not Lady. Lady is good."

Father kneeling while Illyn Payne raised Ice to take of his head. Again Sansa begging Joffrey for mercy.

"Please, stop it! Mercy, please! Someone, stop it!"

The Goldcloaks coming for Gendry and the cage burning.

"Please, stop it! Mercy, please! Someone, stop it!"

The Brotherhood without Banners not managing to kill the Hound.

"Please, stop it! Mercy, please! Someone, stop it!"

Tywin Lannister torturing the prisoners.

"Please, stop it! Mercy, please! Someone, stop it!"

Getting to the Twins. Seeing Robb being paraded around.

"Please, stop it! Mercy, please! Someone, stop it!"

Again that cold, delightful breeze, switching to more resent memories. The Faceless men. Becoming a No one was hard, but only because a rather big part of me didn't want to part with the identity of Arya Stark. The training itself wasn't hard. It helped me forget my suffering if only for the day. Then there was that blasted Girl. The Girl that was jealous of No one's interest in me. The Girl who managed to kill me. But I managed to learn what I could, wanted, before she did. Shame it didn't aid me in my revenge. Now the Direwolves will never run around the North again. Everyone is dead. My family, my pack, is dead. All because of those damned incestuous lions.

The breeze caresses my skin for the third time and then a memory I have not seen before come to the forefront. A single memory, a single lesson, I forgot. Syrio is holding my chin, staring into my eyes, telling me about the god of Death. Then he asks one simple question.

"What do you say to the god of Death?"

I know that but I cannot answer as I feel the alarming sensation that I am falling, and falling hard.

"What do you say to the god of Death?"

The words seem to echo in my head and I am still kept from answering by a voice, piercing the empty darkness. No words, just the male voice, steadily getting louder.

"What do you say to the god of Death?"

Everything is getting louder and louder, almost overbearing but I still hear the little whisper in my mind: Not today.

"What do you say to the god of Death?"

I keep falling, the volume of the noises sending pain, rippling through my head. A face appears out of the darkness. A Stark face. The whisper is a little louder: Not today.

"What do you say to the god of Death?"

The Stark moves his lips as if to say something but nothing comes out. The voice rippling through the darkness and Syrio's words echoing in my head.

"What do you say to the god of Death?"

"Not today!"

The Stark smiles, his harsh grey eyes turning to molten silver. That is the last thing I see before I shoot up in bed, howling in terror, distantly hearing other screams but not registering them in my own horror. My eyes quickly scan the room, both for exits and for weapons, and it startles me when I recognise the room as mine, in Winterfell. In a time where everything was as it should be. Hearing rushed footsteps coming my way I panic, throwing myself out if bed and to the full-sized mirror. A stray thought comes through my panicky haze of my mother saying, 'a lady should always know how she looks' when I complained about the mirror.

On my way to the mirror I grab the next thing that is remotely heavy, in this case a stool, and throw it at the mirror. It shatters but I don't care. I walk over to where a rather big piece of glass lays and grab it, not registering the sharp stings in my bare feet as I walk over the broken glass, my mind fully focusing on readying myself against my attackers. The glass cuts into my hand as I squeeze it tighter in anticipation and the blood rushes by my ears.

Before I know it, the door is swung open and two guards file into the room. I hesitate, seeing their emblem of a Stark Direwolf on their coats but what really makes stop is the woman that comes in after them. Her red hair brightening up the room and her clear blue eyes full of worry. What kind of a hell is this? Am I to watch my mother die before me also? Those were the first thoughts running through my mind but they left as quickly as they appeared when mother began to speak.

"Arya, what happened?"

Her voice so full of concern that it was overwhelming. My hand began to shake and the blood rushed from my head. I didn't care what hell this was. I just wanted to be enveloped in my mother's arms. I dropped the glass and barely held back a sob, my whole body trembling. As I took one step towards mother, my hand outstretched, I whimpered:


I fucking whimpered. I haven't done that in years but I didn't care, I just wanted my mother. As I took another step forwards I started feeling lightheaded, my eyes rolling to the back of my head and my body crashing to the glass covered floor. I vaguely heard mother scream and some male shouts but that was not what I found parading around in my head. Giving me the mother of all headaches. No it was the voice, the Stark's words:

"Valar morghulis, little wolf, and Valar Dohaeris."

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- Until next time!