There is only one thing we say to death: not today. (Syrio Forel)

The Second Long Night does not last a generation.

Once the Night's King and his White Walkers and Wights come through the Wall and fight the armies of the living, Winter conquers the land . . . but only for a short time, compared to the other Long Night, eight thousand years before . . .

During this war, many exiles cease their wandering and return to their ancestral homes – among them, Arya Stark, of Winterfell.

Now, the War for the Dawn is over. Winter is coming to an end. All around, people dream of spring. Arya Stark, however, has other dreams.

Chapter 1

Arya stalked through the corridors of Winterfell, and, wherever she went, death followed.

She killed the maidservants and the cooks, the guards and stable-boys, and her ears were deaf to the screams and pleas of the dying. Jon tried to stop her and she stabbed him through the heart. When Sansa collapsed over his body, sobbing, Arya pulled her sister's head back and cut her throat.

Her hands and clothes were sticky and heavy with blood when she finally reached the last person alive in Winterfell, and pulled her around, only to see her own face.

Arya woke up, a scream dying on her lips; though she was sure that had only been in her nightmare. Else she would have woken the entire household, and no-one was stirring, besides her. Her stomach was churning, but she swallowed her bile with an effort.

Always the same dream, for the last two moons. Was it a prophetic dream? Was she a greenseer, like Bran? But no, the dream never showed her anything beyond what she knew to be true.

Unprompted and unwelcome, a memory rose in her mind.

You have stolen from the Many-Faced God.

Well, hadn't she? Killing the Freys, she'd used one of the faces. Once she'd reached Winterfell, and realised that Jon and Sansa needed to be kept safe, it seemed that the killing would never stop. Was the dream a manifestation of resentment? Neither Jon nor Sansa would ever know what she'd done for them.

Or was it something more primal, was it truly the Many-Faced God reaching out to her, demanding that she repay what she'd stolen? Not only had she killed the Freys, she'd dealt death to Petyr Baelish, she'd snuck in the Red Keep and poisoned Queen Cersei, first, and last, of her name. Had it been wrong to kill Ilyn Payne, as well as others involved in her father's murder? Should she have left him for Daenerys to deal with? Had she been stupid to think that the god could be left behind, in Braavos?

Although it had been a dream, it seemed to her that the coppery smell of the blood still surrounded her, suffocating her. She could not stay in bed for another second, and even though she could tell it would not be light for a few hours, got up. A walk would clear her head, she was sure of it.

She reached for her breeches, and remembered the argument she'd had with Sansa over the clothes which were appropriate for a lady of Winterfell to wear. It had taken much arguing, and an intervention from Jon, for her sister to accept that Arya would never be wearing a gown again.

It was strange. When she was a child, she would have screamed at Sansa to mind her own business and then not spoken to her for a week. Instead, she'd almost relished the argument. It had been bittersweet to see the old Sansa for a few seconds; even though she'd never admit it out loud, Arya had missed her. She'd reminded her of Mother.

Arya managed to sneak out of her room and onto the battlements, and climbed down the walls carefully. She immediately felt better at being out of the castle. And guilty for feeling that way. She had been away from Winterfell for too long. It didn't feel like home anymore. Or rather, she didn't feel like Arya anymore.

She took deep breaths of the frigid air as she walked, and wondered, not for the first time, how long this winter would last. It wasn't as cold as it had been when she'd first arrived in Winterfell – before the Night's King and the White Walkers had been defeated. She herself wasn't sure how that had been accomplished, finding herself more concerned with the mortal sphere, even as she asked herself why it was so difficult for people to band together in the face of a seemingly undefeatable monstrous enemy.

Arya walked, and walked, and before she knew it, found herself in Wintertown, which was slowly but surely coming back to life. Not all the buildings had been restored, though, she realised, when she stood in front of an average sized house, with a few good-sized rooms. She didn't remember this place from her childhood – true, it was down a side lane, and was only exposed now because the houses which had hidden it had been burned down in the sack. She wondered who owned it now.

Arya wandered around until a few people started emerging from their houses to feed the livestock, and fetch water. They nodded to her, having grown accustomed to the strange girl who should be a lady, but who preferred wearing men's clothes and had a sword at her hip. As she walked back to Winterfell, an idea grew in her mind. She dismissed it as impossible, and ridiculous, at first. But by the time she reached the walls of the keep, she'd formed a solid plan. Maybe she could do this. Maybe it would be enough.

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