Full Summery:Arya Stark left Westeros four years ago, but a chance meeting with two men of the Nights Watch prompts her to return to the place she once called home and reclaim what's rightfully hers. Travelling across Westeros, Arya gathers an army to take back the North, reliving old memories, reuniting with old friends, and trying to hide the person she has become in Braavos. Gendry lost the only person in his life who ever saw something in, who treated him like he was worth a damn. She was his only true friend, and because of a moment of stupidity, he had pushed her away. He blamed himself for not saving her from her kidnapper, and now he lived each day with guilt bubbling inside. He thought he would never see her again, he barely believed the rumours of her return until she walked right back into his life.

She's frozen to the core, He never wants to leave her side again and as their journey takes some unexpected turns, the person she once trusted with her biggest secret begins to melt the ice within her, but will he still be there when the last of her secrets flow into the open?

A/N: Hi there! Welcome to my new fic. This is my first ASoIaF fic, but I had this idea take form in my mind and I just couldn't let it go, so I started writing. I know this has been done before, but this is my take on Arya's return to Westeros after a number of years in Braavos. I'm working on two fics at once, so updates may not be every fortnight, but I will try my best.

I've tried to stick as much to the books as possible, The story picks up a few years after the end of A Dance with Dragons - if you notice anything majorly wrong, please let me know :) (I have taken the liberty of keeping Jon alive - I'm in denial about his final chapter, and I refuse to believe he dies lol)

A word of warning, this is going to be a bit of a slow burner when it comes to the Arya/Gendry storyline, and it's looking to be a long story, at least 30 chapters I think at the moment (That's just a rough estimate, it could be a couple less, or a few more.) Chapters will be written in a certain character's perspective, like the books, and I'll be swapping mainly between Arya and Gendry, but with a couple of others thrown in there when it's needed.

The rating is a T for now, but it will be upgraded to M further along (There will definitely be a few lemons the further in we get), but I will post a warning at the top of the chapter before we get to it.

I have nothing else to say, except thanks for giving it a go, I hope you like it :)

xBx

Oh yeah, major DISCLAIMER (to cover the entire story): I own nothing, it all belongs to George R.R. Martin. But we all know that, so I won't be saying it again lol

Chapter 1: Arya

The night was almost black: the snow had finally stopped, the sky was clear for the first time in weeks and thousands of stars were out. But there was no moon. She stalked forward, wary, her four feet crunching over the fresh, thick layer of snow covering the forest floor. There was the smell of human in the air; she raised her nose to the sky and sniffed in deep: three humans. Three smells, all uniquely different but at the same time, identical.

Her pack was ten paces behind her, as they always were, but she knew they were there. She could sense them – they never strayed far from her side. She was three times the size of them now, but still they ran with her – they would never eat if they didn't.

She sniffed again: fire. And burnt meat. These humans liked to burn their meat before they ate it, but she didn't understand why: she liked fresh meat that bled warm when you took your first bite.

She was close to the humans now; she could see them through the trees. She stalked around, circling her prey, keeping out of sight.Quiet as a shadow. Her brothers and sisters were closer now – not her true brothers, they had been separated a long time now, and one was no longer there at all. Neither was her sister, she had been the first to leave for good: the first of the pack to die. But her adopted pack was with her now, circling the prey, the same as their leader. She made the first strike, darting through the trees and bowling over the biggest human.Quiet as a shadow, swift as a dear. That was how she attacked, quiet and swift, but when her pack joined the fray, all became noisy and chaotic. Not that it mattered, the three humans fell with ease, their horses even easier, and the pack ate well that night.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she felt a presence, not like that of her true brothers. It was a distant connection to the one she loved most, but who had sent her away a long time ago. Though they had been separated for years, she still sensed her master, and she had been sensing her more often for many moons now. Sometimes she shared her master's thoughts, registering things that she wouldn't normally notice. It happened in that moment, as she attacked, something stirred in her mind, and she knew these men were her master's enemies. She knew it by the colour of the human's garb. Lannister Crimson.

Arya awoke in her room to the first light of day edging through the small window, a small smile gracing her lips, the hot coppery taste of blood still tingling on her tongue.

Despite being an apprentice of the Faceless Men of Braavos, Arya Stark continued to have her Wolf Dreams, and she had no intention of stopping. By becoming a Faceless Man – or in her case, woman – she was supposed to give up her past identity: all…well, she had lost count of how many people she had pretended to be in the past. She never told anyone about her Wolf Dreams, but she never tried to give them up either. She enjoyed being back in Westeros, seeing through the eyes of her direwolf, Nymeria.

She had realised, not long after being presented with her apprentice robes, what these dreams meant. She had been dreaming of Nymeria for years, before she even left Westeros, but back then she had only assumed it was because she missed her. She was still a child when she had left Westeros; on the verge of becoming a woman, it was true, and grown up in many ways, but still a child in many more.

But the dreams had continued, and had become more frequent as of late. She had even found she had some control in these dreams: she could make Nymeria do something she wanted to do, she had felt Nymeria resist at first, but soon she bent to her will. These dreams, coupled with her ability to see through the eyes of the cats when she had been blind, a few years ago, meant only one thing to her: she was a Warg, a Skinchanger. The blood of the First Men ran thick in her veins, she had known this for years; she could not ignore that, it would seem, nor give that part of her identity up. Perhaps this hindered her advancement through her apprenticeships, it had been three years since she had completed her first assassination, but she still had a long way to go.

The sun was rising outside her window, and with the early hours of a new day came the usual noise you expect to hear about the docks: merchants selling their treasures at a cheaper rate, brought from as far as Asshai, and the cities of Slaver's Bay; fishmongers selling their freshest catch, brought into port at the break of dawn. Captains shouted across ships to one another, and sometimes just shouted at their crew in general – usually those who took it upon themselves to stagger back on board at this hour of the day after spending the night at one of the many whore-houses along the front.

Arya rose from her small bed, washed quickly in the bowl of cold water, and put on her simple rough-spun dress, lacing up the bodice tight, as she had done every morning for the past ten days. Although she was now a woman grown, she was still skinny and small, her figure rather boyish, and when she dressed in breeches and a loose enough tunic, only her hair and the feminine features of her face told people she was a girl. In the dress, however, she managed to display some curves, with small breasts, somewhat narrow hips and an even narrower waist. Her figure had changed since she had made her way to Braavos, that much she was aware of. It had started changing before she had even left Westeros, though it had changed more since she came here and she didn't get her first moons blood until she had been in Braavos near on a year.

She thought back to when she first noticed the subtle changes in her body, as she quickly pulled a brush through her hair. It had been when that woman had forced her into that god awful dress and tried to make her look like a proper little lady – if she could see me now, she smirked. When she had been bathed for the first time in over a month, she finally had noticed the dark curls beginning to grow between her thighs, and when the dress had been laced she had noticed that her chest was not as flat as it had used to be – true, her breasts had hardly began to form, but you could see they were starting to blossom. It was an awful evening, she had been incredibly self-conscious and it was made even more mortifying when he had laughed as soon as –

Arya shook her head violently, "No. You are No One." She told herself in the mirror, "No One has no memories. What is wrong with you?" She chastised herself. She wasn't usually like this: she was now having her wolf dreams every night, and it seemed every morning she was accosted with some distant, half formed memories of a young girl's life in Westeros.

She took a breath, cleared her mind, and set down the brush. Today is the day, valar morghulis, she thought to herself as she glanced back at the small mirror. Her own face looked back at her, she had not yet learnt how to change her face, the way she had once seen Jaqen H'ghar do, but nor did she need to for this particular task. As a girl, she had never been thought to be particularly pretty, but as a woman she had grown into her looks, and though Arya herself could not see it, others now considered her as a rather beautiful young woman. And a pretty serving girl at the largest inn in Ragman's Harbour would never be capable of killing a sailor. She knew it was a bold choice, using her own face and not another one from that room. After this job, she would never be able to leave the House and Black and White again without wearing the face of another. But for some reason she couldn't quite place, it had felt like the right thing to do.

She twisted her hair into a rough knot, quickly shoving a pin in to hold it in place. Her hair had grown considerably since she had first left Westeros, and it now fell to the middle of her back, in thick dark brown tresses. She had never been particularly girly, much to her Lady Mother's consternation, and she was aware that shorter hair was a deal easier to manage, but after the brutal experience she had had, having her hair cut short the first time, she couldn't bring herself to do it again.

She descended the stairs of the Drunken Pirate, at which she was currently living and working. Guests would usually rise about an hour after dawn and would be expecting bread and ale to break their fast, and would be expecting her to serve it to them.

The morning started out as much the same as any other: men came and went, some staying barely five minutes, others staying three hours. Some were there simply to while away the hours until their ship left port, others for business, and some because they had nothing else to do. Lunchtime came and went, with nothing more exciting happening than a drunken sailor trying to put his hand up her skirts and into her underclothes. He paid for his troubles by being thrown mercilessly from the establishment by Arya herself, saying in his ear as she did:

"You would do better at the Happy Port, where tricks like that are welcomed for a price of silver. Here that gets you the gift of steel in your side." Arya had regretted her outburst almost instantaneously: the rash temper was from the person she used to be, belonging to a life she had been trying to forget. Now, she was supposed to be calm: calm as still water a half-forgotten voice whispered in the back of her mind, tugging at her memories.

The man had staggered away, his thick cloak sheltering him from the cold winter winds blowing in from the Shivering Sea. Later that afternoon, it was rumoured he had fallen at the doors of the Happy Port, his own dagger protruding from his side. It is thought the drunken fool impaled himself as he stumbled, but no one knew for sure.

The day wore on, and as the winter evening drew in fast, the inn became crowded with sailors and travellers, seeking a warm meal, good ale, and music. Arya was more alert to her surroundings than on any other day: any moment now, her target would enter, and her sole reason for being here would reach its climax. As Arya weaved her way through the tables, a jug of ale in each had, two new persons entered the establishment. Both were men, with the look of Westeros about them, and both were wearing black. All black. They were brothers of the Night's Watch, and Arya couldn't help but make her way directly to them – she did not recognise these men, and she had been gone from Westeros so long, they would not know who she was. She knew she was risking an awful lot, putting herself in front of these men, Had it been another day, I might have looked the other way, Arya thought, but after the endless string of wolf dreams, and the vivid memory of this morning, she just couldn't seem to stop herself.

"You two have flown far from your wall." Arya smiled, a faint Braavosi accent colouring her words.

The younger of the two grinned back, his eyes shamelessly raking Arya's form from top to bottom. The older man however, was looking at Arya warily, somewhat confused. It's almost as if he recognises me, Arya thought, immediately recognising the man's expression, and interpreting it correctly – four years in Braavos had taught her how to read a person perfectly. Though he can't, she reasoned, if we had ever met, it would have been at Winterfell, and I haven't been there since I was a child.

"That we are," The younger man said, still wearing that insolent smile, "And what happens in Braavos, stays in Braavos." He added suggestively, a hungry glint in his eyes, taking an automatic step forwards, towards her. He was rewarded for his bawdiness with a sharp slap to the head from his Brother.

"You are a Brother of the Night's Watch, Calloway, you may not be at the Wall now but your vows still stand." The older brother chastised, and then looked keenly at Arya, "You are not Braavosi, are you? Despite your accent." He asked, and Arya smiled. It was a simple smile, that didn't quite reach her eyes, and gave no answer to the question.

Ignoring the statement, she simply asked: "Would you like food? Ale? A room for the night?"

"All." The elder brother said, but he would not be distracted. "You are from Westeros. I would wager from the North, given your…look." He finished, that wary look back in his eyes, and immediately Arya knew, his features saying more than all his words would ever say. He knows I'm a Stark. This was dangerous ground to tread upon at the best of times, but particularly in this hour, when she could not be distracted from her task. Nor could she have anyone watching her intently, either. But regardless of either of these things, Arya felt herself being drawn to the two men of the Nights Watch.

As Arya opened her mouth to speak, the door to the inn opened again, and her target entered, right on time, pulling her back into focus. "Go to the bar and ask for Maryn. He will sort you with a room. I will bring food and ale up to you myself." She said to the elder Brother, making a hasty decision: their conversation had to end for now, but that didn't mean it couldn't begin again, after.

Before the Brothers could say another word, Arya disappeared amongst the tables, winding her way towards her target. He was an older man, who liked to call himself a sailor, though he had not sailed the seas for many a year. Arya did not know much of him, nor why he had been targeted. All she knew was his name, and that she had a gift to deliver to him. When she did she would be rewarded with her fair share of coin.

Before reaching her target she passed the serving hatch of the kitchens; she quickly emptied one of the jugs into the other, and handed the empty jug through the hatch.

"Brynne, could you refill the jug and put it back behind the bar? I would do it myself, but these sailors have a thirst tonight, like none I've known." Arya called out to one of the kitchen maids, in fluent Braavosi.

"Right away, Cassa!" Brynne called back – Cassa was the name Arya had given herself for this task, taken from the cassava plant, whose toxins she was planning to use this very night. She never used her own name, and she never used the same name twice: after all, she was supposed to be No One.

Without slowing her step, Arya meandered through the tables, filling up cups here and there until her pitcher was almost empty, ignoring the bawdy jests and the straying hands of many a man as she passed by. A table away, her target caught her eye, saw the jug in her hand and motioned her over. Arya smiled and walked towards him making sure to keep eye contact, as her free hand deftly swept up and over the jug, as if to wipe away a drip from the spout. Unseen to anyone, she had deposited a handful of crystals into the remaining liquid, which dissolved instantaneously. She had often heard it said that poison was a woman's trick, a cowardly way to kill – she disagreed, it was a stealthy way to kill, and a clever way that left no trace, if it was done right.

When she reached her target, she poured his measure, still maintaining her smile, before turning and walking away.

"Valar Morghulis." She whispered, before walking toward a group who looked about ready to draw their steel and fight. She had another cupful of ale, at least, left in her jug that she needed to justifiably empty before someone else could drink it. Just as she thought, the group of men, all drunk, unsheathed their steel just as Arya was passing: One sliced at another, hitting his target, and spattering blood across Arya's dress and, thanks to the way Arya held it, right into the jug.

Maryn was there instantly, breaking up the fight with the help of a couple of the more sober patriots of the inn, and tossing out the offending sailors in less than a minute.

When peace was restored, he turned to Arya, "Are you well, Cassa?" He asked her in Braavosi.

"I am fine," Arya answered in the same tongue, "The ale is not, the idiots spilt their blood in it."

"Toss it, and clean the jug properly before you refill." He told her, "And when you've done that, take nourishment up to the two Westerosi in black. It seems you promised to feed them in their rooms." He barked. "I don't have time to be running around after other people – you promised, so you do it. And don't make that promise again. I don't care where they're from, or who they are, they eat down here in future."

Arya nodded demurely, and did as she was told. It had taken a while for her to accept being spoken to in such a way, without causing a fuss. She had grown up flouting authority, and being spoken to in a way that was proper for a Lady to be spoken to. When someone spoke to her rudely, or harshly, making demands of her, she had fired back and flatly refused to comply. That sort of behaviour did not have a place in a servant of the House of Black and White, and she had had to snap out of it pretty quickly.

By the time she was heading upstairs with a tray in hand, her target was leaving, looking as healthy as he had when he had entered. The concoction in his drink had been made to be slow acting, and would not do him harm for another hour at least, by which time he would be well away from this place.

Arya disappeared up the stairs, making her way to the room the Black Brothers had taken, where she knocked on the door and entered, placing the tray down on the one table in their room.

"Ale. And fish stew in a trencher of hard bread." Arya announced, "It's simple, but it's tasty." She assured them, as she proceeded to pour some ale into the two cups.

"What brings the Night's Watch to Braavos?" Arya asked after a moment, serving the men their drinks.

"We're passing through, on our way to Oldtown." The younger man, named Calloway, spoke while the older man once again looked keenly at Arya.

"Why not take the King's Road?" She asked, without thinking.

"Quicker this way, and somewhat safer. The snows are falling thick and fast in the North, and the cold winds are blowing further south of the wall than they ever have before." The young one said told her.

Arya visibly shivered, she couldn't stop herself, as she suddenly remembered the stories her past self was once told. When the cold winds rise, the dead rise with them.

"Winter is Coming." She whispered automatically, her mouth taking over for the briefest of moments, her lips barely moving. Calloway paid her no mind, tucking into his meal instead, as if he had not eaten in weeks. He had not heard the words, nor seen her mouth move.

The older man, however, had been watching her carefully, heard it all, and now he frowned.

"Calloway," he barked suddenly, "Go down to the bar and get us a decent flagon of red. Gods know I haven't had decent wine since I first step foot in Eastwatch, too many years past."

Calloway grumbled, but did as he was told. When the door was shut behind him, the Brother spoke again. "You are from the North: Only a Northerner would shudder at those words, for only they understand what they truly mean." He said.

"I was told stories as a child, about the Others beyond the wall." Arya admitted. "You are from Eastwatch?" She asked.

"Aye." He nodded, "Well I've seen 'em beyond the wall." He told her, "And people are seeing 'em south of the wall, now too. For thousands of years, Rangers only gave one or two blasts of their horns. Now, every time it's heard, it's three that are given." The older brother said solemnly, "My name's Whitlock, Allard Whitlock. But most people call me Big Al." He told her, "I command at Eastwatch, now. What did you say your name was?" He asked.

"I didn't." Arya smiled, "What other news do you bring from Westeros? And what takes you to Oldtown?" She asked, trying to change the subject.

"Why should I tell you?" Big Al asked, not harshly, but cautiously.

"Why shouldn't you?" Arya countered, "I'm simply a serving girl at a Braavosi inn, interested in news of her old country."

"Why did you leave?" The older man asked shrewdly, and Arya smiled.

"Answer my questions and I'll answer yours." She told him truthfully. The brother nodded.

"Alright then. The Lord Commander sent us to escort his new Maester. He sent a Black Brother to Oldtown a few years back, the same way we've come, to be trained, and now it's time he returned."

Arya nodded, "I remember them." She told him, "One of them stayed behind-"

"A deserter," He interrupted with a scowl, "I suppose he's long gone from here, now."

"He's dead." Arya told him with certainty; she was the one who killed him after all, not that she told him that.

"So much the better," Al spoke gruffly, "Though it would have been useful to have him back at the wall. We are low on men as it is, and we're losing more by the day."

"What about the North?" Arya asked, "Do they not lend you their swords?"

"We sometimes get a helping hand, but they rarely have any men to spare. Too busy fighting amongst themselves. It was a bad day for the North, when Ned Stark went south, all those years ago. Even worse when the Young Wolf followed with his army." The older man sighed. "The North is not united, without a Stark in Winterfell."

Arya kept her face impassive, as the man continued, digging into his simple supper. "Of course, a Stark supposedly returned for a brief period, much good it did. Now the Greyjoys declare themselves King of the Iron Isles and the North, and Ramsey Bolton – who used to be Snow – holds Winterfell, in the name of his lost wife: The Lady Arya Stark." He said this carefully, watching Arya intently.

"How is that possible?" Arya asked, without thinking of the implications: it was strange to hear herself talked about as still alive in Westeros, when for the past four years she had been in Braavos, living as No-one, Arya Stark left in the past. Stranger still that she was apparently married, to the Bolton bastard no less! She had a strange feeling she had heard this rumour before, before she left Westeros: her thoughts flickered to the Hound – had he said it? Or had someone said it to him? Before she could explore the memory properly, Allard's voice brought her back to the present.

"I've been asking myself the same question. See, I've heard a lot about this Arya Stark, from her bastard brother, Lord Commander Snow. According to him, Arya was the only one of Lady Catelyn's brood in whom the Stark blood ran thick – she looked more like Jon Snow, than any of her other siblings. And she was quite the troublemaker: enjoyed getting dirty and playing rough with her brothers over learning to be a proper little lady, like her sister. But the people who saw Arya's return to Winterfell say she has grown into quite a demure ladylike woman, and their descriptions of her seem a little wanting. If truth be told, I'd say you look more like a Stark than Bolton's wife turned out to be." The brother told her, but Arya kept her face straight, and her eyes blank, as if this story didn't move her. He leaned forward, and spoke quietly.

"I was once at Winterfell, when the late Lord Rickard was alive, as was Lord Brandon. Before Benjen took the black, before Eddard went south to fight, before Lyanna disappeared and died. A funny thing: when I first walked into this place, I could have sworn I was looking at a ghost." Big Al whispered, his eyes never leaving Arya's face. The room was silent, the un-asked question hanging pointedly in the air, until the moment was broken as Calloway returned.

"This is the best they have, the wench behind the bar said." He declared, setting the flagon down on the table, completely unaware of what he was interrupting. "It better be bloody good, it cost a pretty penny." He grumbled, before tucking back into his meal.

"I will leave you to your meals," Arya smiled, walking to the door, she stooped in the doorway, and looked back into the room. "When do you sail for Oldtown?" She asked quietly.

Big Al frowned at the lack of confirmation about who she was, but answered her all the same. "We've booked passage on Summer's Snow. She leaves at dawn."

"I will see you at the docks in the hour before dawn, for I sail on her too." Arya declared, her decision made in a split second.

"And why would you be doing that, I wonder?" Al asked shrewdly.

"Sleep well, should you need anything else, the bar is always open until the early hours." Arya said, ignoring the question. She left them to the remainder of their dinner with many and more questions running through Big Al's head, and returned to the bar to finish her work, trying not to wonder if she was making a wise decision.

The plan had always been to simply disappear into the night once her task was done, the same way she always did, and that part would not change. In her mind, simple chance could not have delivered the men of the Nights Watch to her on her last night in the inn, before she disappeared. And it could not be simple coincidence that they would appear when she was working with her own true face – she had never done that before, but this time she had chose not to be given a new one, for reasons she couldn't then explain. But she could explain it now: This was the work of the Gods, her Gods, the old Gods of the North calling her back. She had been longing for her home more often than usual, of late, and now the time felt right to return.

Her brothers were gone, all dead, and Sansa – she didn't know what had become of Sansa, but she didn't feel like she really cared, if truth were told. She was the last Stark left: the Greyjoys had stolen her brother's crown and the Bolton bastard was using her name to rule. That she could not allow. That she would not allow.

When night fell, she returned to her room as usual, closing and locking the door, but instead of undressing, she threw a thick cloak around her, pulled the hood up over her head to hide her face, and climbed out of the window and onto the rooftops.

Travelling through the city across the rooftops was the swiftest and safest way to travel: no one would think to look for you this high up. Soon enough she came to the house of Black and White, entering the way she always did when she returned, she went to her room in the vast house, and there she waited.

Before too long, the Kindly Man found her sat on her bed, her cloak still fastened about her shoulders, only the hood had been removed.

"Valar Morghulis." He said.

"Valar Dohaeris," Arya responded.

"One hears tell that a sailor died today." The Kindly Man spoke, in Braavosi.

"Is that so?" Arya responded in the same tongue, "And how did that happen?"

"He took his usual drink in the Drunken Pirate, and then made his way to the Happy Port as he always did. Just as he was receiving his pleasure, it seems his heart failed to continue beating, and his lungs stopped working and no one can understand why." He declared.

The Kindly Man bestowed a smile, "You have done well." He pulled out a small bag, jingling with coin, and tossed it to Arya, who caught it deftly.

"Silver, for this one." He told her, "His death was more important than your last. You have not removed your cloak. Why?" He asked.

"I am not staying." Arya said directly.

"Why?" The Kindly Man asked simply, as if this revelation were not a shock to him.

"Because this is not who I am." Arya told him simply, standing as she spoke.

"And who are you?" He asked. He had asked Arya this question a thousand times before, and she had always answered 'I am No One.' An answer expected of her, but an answer he never believed. This time she answered differently, she answered truthfully.

"I am Lady Arya of House Stark, the rightful heir of Winterfell." She told him, standing tall and proud, her face serious. "I am a wolf." She stated, "And it is time for me to take back what is rightfully mine."

Her teacher looked at her impassively for a moment, and then to Arya's astonishment (though she never let it show) he smiled a small smile. "And finally, you speak a truth: a truth from your heart, which you believe with every fibre of your being. Yes, you are," He agreed, "But do you remember what I said to you, when you first stepped foot in here?" He asked.

Arya remembered perfectly: this memory was as clear as day to her. "The House of Black and White is no place for Arya, of House Stark." She repeated back to him, word for word, that which he had spoke to her four years ago.

"Just so." The kindly man nodded, producing an iron coin, just like the one Jaqen H'ghar had given her once, and pressing it into Arya's palm. "Now go, Lady Arya, of House Stark. And leave Braavos quickly."

Arya was uncertain as to whether or not that was a threat, but she left the House of Black and White quickly all the same. She retrieved Needle from its hiding place, where it had been hidden undisturbed for over three years now. Fastening the blade to her waist, she fastened the cloak it had been wrapped in, underneath the one she was currently wearing – no doubt the extra layer would be welcome in the snows of Westeros. She had grown a lot since the last time she had worn the cloak. Where before it reached down to her ankles, now it only just reached her knees. Quiet as a shadow, quick as a snake, she flitted through the streets of Braavos, making her way back towards the docks, finding her way to Summer's Snow, the ship that would take her home.

In the hour before dawn, the two brothers of Night's Watch appeared at the end of the jetty; Arya appeared from the shadows, to follow the men on board. When the captain had tried to stop her from boarding, claiming he had never agreed to take her, she pressed the iron coin into his palm.

"Surely you can find room for one more?" She asked as the captain turned the coin over in his hand. "Valar Morghulis." She added.

"Valar Dohaeris." He responded, "You can take my cabin."

Arya smiled and shook her head, "There will be no need, I can share with the Brothers." She told him. He tried to persuade her otherwise, but Arya was adamant and finally won the argument.

As the sun began to pull its way up from the horizon, the sails were hoisted, the oars were dispatched, and Summer's Snow made it's way out of Ragman's Harbour.

Arya smiled as she left Braavos. Finally, she was going home, to Winterfell. Her journey had started so many years ago, the day she fled Kings Landing, disguised as Arry the orphan boy. And now, she was finally embarking on the final leg of her journey: It would be long, it would be hard, and no doubt full of blood, but if it finally took her home, she felt it would all be worth it.

A/N: So there you have it, if feel like leaving a review please do :) let me know what you thought, if you loved it, hated it I want to know...though try and go a little easy with the hate lol

Also, halfway through the chapter, I had an idea (I won't say 'genius' because I reckon this is going to come back and bite me on the ass!) to include a song lyric in every chapter some of them will probably be more obvious than others. But there's one in there somewhere, from a song by The Beatles. If you think you find it let me know :)

xBx