Chapter Text
ARYA
Were ghosts of a memory dangerous?
She could only wonder as much as she stared up at the carved face of her father. Though the stone figure bore little resemblance to Ned Stark, the statue itself still held a commanding presence. Arya found herself wondering, on more than one occasion, whether or not her father would be proud of her and of everything that she had done. Would he commend her for the justice that she had served in the name of her family? Or turn away in disgust at the cold killer she had become?
She hoped for the former but reality pulled her towards the latter. Hadn’t her own sister been disgusted and terrified when she had stumbled upon the faces? Hadn’t Sansa been so afraid of her and her training that she almost ordered her arrest?
It had been Bran who intervened. Or at least, he had brought them both together once Sansa had gone to him after being torn between her own opinion and the mockingbird singing in her ear. But in the end, when their brother had revealed and confirmed the man’s treachery, it had been the Lady of Winterfell who decided that it was time for the bird to stop singing.
Arya had been all too happy to offer her blade.
It was a pointless pastime, wondering what life would have been like if so many different people had lived. But she did it anyway because being back at Winterfell with Sansa and Bran was changing her. She could feel it in the way she grew concerned for Sansa whenever she turned too quiet or when she worried about Bran and his visions. It had taken news about Jon’s survival as King in the North that changed the direction she had been traveling in and she had turned to ride north, to ride to her family.
Of course, Cersei was still on her list and she was determined to live to see the Mad Queen pulled from her throne one way or the other. It was one of the first few things that she and her sister had come to agree on.
Now there was another queen to consider. She had heard the rumors about the Dragon Queen while in Braavos. Everyone spoke of her dragons, of her beauty, of the way she had fought to end slavery in the Free Cities. The queen would certainly be a valuable asset in the war against the dead when her dragons and two separate armies were taken into consideration. But she was also the queen that Jon had bent the knee to. Arya knew that Sansa had been troubled by the news. She hadn't been there to see the way that the Ironborn and Boltons had destroyed the North and its people. But Sansa had. Her sister had struggled with the lords to keep them from turning against their brother. She had retaken Winterfell and ruled with a caring hand, despite all the troubles that the lords and their people tried to throw her way. Sansa had stood to defend their home against the threat from within and in just a few short weeks, a new threat would be at their gates.
It was a troubling thought, considering the last time that a monarch had come to Winterfell. Arya could still remember how it had felt to ride through the gates with King Robert’s party and the knowledge that she was leaving her mother and brothers behind. Her young self could have never imagined everything that was to come after that. Then it had taken her nearly seven years to return home, to return to her family. She didn’t plan to lose them now and that thought comforted her as she spared one last glance at Ned Stark’s image and moved to exit the crypts, pausing to stop besides the statues of her two brothers that had also been commissioned. Robb and Rickon were gone but she would do everything in her power to protect those who were left.
. . .
Locating Sansa was always easy. Her sister’s movements were fairly predictable. Either she was in her solar consulting with Maester Wolkan about grain stores and other supplies, or she could be found walking in the same circular path around the castle, talking with Commander Royce about the preparations that would help to protect anyone who sought shelter and safety with them once the fighting started. The number was growing more and more each day as the Northern folk retreated to the holdfast. The war had left so many with so little.
The sun had set by the time she made it to Sansa’s solar. Arya smirked. Her sister would be working by candlelight, buried underneath mounds of parchment and wouldn’t look up until Arya would creep up behind her to place her hand upon her shoulder, making her jump.
Which is exactly what she did.
“By the Mother, would you stop?” Sansa complained after jumping at the feeling of Arya’s hand on her. “The door creaks loudly. How do you keep sneaking in?”
Arya shrugged, smiling with satisfaction after clearly unsettling her elder sibling. Sansa met her gaze and smiled in return. After planning Littlefinger’s execution, a certain closeness had developed between them. Something that never would have existed when they were younger. But they were family after all.
The thought helped her to remember why she had sought out Sansa in the first place. Kneeling to stoke the fire, she sighed heavily. “I’m worried about Bran.”
Sansa frowned as she rolled a list of food stores back into place. “I noticed he didn’t appear for dinner. But then, neither did you.”
Arya ignored the accusation but turned back to her sister nonetheless. “I took bread to him and Sam since they’re both practically growing roots in the godswood.”
“And? Did you learn anything?” They both knew that Arya had been seeking out both their brother and the Night’s Watchman to learn all that she could about the Army of the Dead that was marching south for the Wall. She had soon learned the importance of Valyrian steel against the undead and had pledged every ounce of her strength to the cause in that same moment, though Bran was reluctant to share too much with anyone except Samwell Tarly.
“I think he’s trying to predict the Night King's movements and it’s only exhausting him more.”
“I can’t stop Bran from doing anything anymore than I could try to stop you. He’d probably just warg into some animal from the stables to get himself back to the godswood.” Sansa answered dismissively as she reached for a new set of parchment.
“We have to try and do something.” Arya pressed. “I overheard him talking with Sam and he’s been marked, Sansa. The marks on his arm are from the Night King and they’re as cold as ice.”
This seemed to catch her sister’s attention, for Sansa set down her quill and turned to meet her gaze. The concern she held in her Tully blue eyes was so much like their mother that for a moment, just a moment, Arya felt as if it were Catelyn Stark staring back at her. A sharp stab of pain ran through her heart at the thought of their mother, forcing Arya to shake her head in an attempt to shake away the ghost of their mother.
Sansa was watching her carefully. “What else did you hear?”
“A bit. It sounded like something out of one of Old Nan’s tales.” Sansa met her gaze with a raised brow.
“You take men’s faces but what our brother has experienced seems fictional to you?”
“Fair point,” conceded Arya. Placing her hands on the desk for support, she lifted herself onto its edge. “From what I heard, this Night King has similar powers. He was created by the Children of the Forest, the same who later turned on him to help build the Wall. Bran was beyond the Wall, learning all this until he tried to spy on the Night King.” She turned back to face her sister and found that Sansa was watching intently. Bran clearly hadn’t shared much about their time apart when he had returned. This was news to her as well. “He can see everything in his visions but for whatever reason, the Night King can block him. Apparently. So when Bran was spying on the Army of the Dead, the Night King saw. And he reached for Bran. Marking him.”
“Is that why he returned? So that he would be safe from the dead on this side of the Wall?”
“It would make sense,” agreed Arya. “But I could see the mark from where I was watching. It’s like the Night King himself grabbed onto Bran. I don’t know what it means but I want to help him, Sansa.” Arya could feel a lump forming at the back of her throat, a telltale sign of all the pain associated with the idea of losing someone else when she had already lost so many.
Her sister seemed to understand because Sansa set down her ledger before reaching out to take Arya’s hand in her own, squeezing it tightly once she did so. “We can both try to talk to him this evening. Though … you’ve been missing dinner in the hall as well.” Sansa noted pointedly as she turned back to her ledger.
Arya rolled her eyes and scoffed. “Just because you don’t see me doesn’t mean I’m not there, dear sister.” She said with the slightest tease.
“You just like hearing the knights talk about how terrifying you are.” Arya bit back the smirk of satisfaction, feeling the slightest glow of warmth at Sansa’s comment. Uniting against Littlefinger’s treachery had brought them closer than they had ever been as children.
It felt weird. Different.
“They’re afraid of you too.” She said smoothly, nudging her sister with her foot from where she remained sitting on the desk. “But mostly they’ve been talking about Jon returning with the Dragon Queen.”
“Mm, I’m sure they are.” Sansa answered coolly. Arya turned slightly in order to watch her sister more closely. Since the letter detailing Jon bending the knee to the Targaryen queen, the Lady of Winterfell had been publicly silent in regards to their brother’s decision, though Arya was learning all the tells that her sister’s face would give away.
Like the little twitch above her left eyebrow that happened whenever anyone mentioned the Dragon Queen. The younger Stark sister inhaled slowly, taking the time to push away her own thoughts. “Do you think he bent the knee for her dragons … or her?” She decided that it was best not to speak the ruler’s name.
Sansa’s eyebrow twitched once more. Her lips formed into a thin line as she gathered her thoughts just as silently as she gathered her ledger papers. Finally, her sister looked up to meet her gaze with the slightly shrug. “I think Jon is a man. Men can be easily swayed.”
“And you think Jon was easily swayed?” Arya fought the brief irritation that rose at the slight against their brother. Sansa held her gaze, Tully blue eyes staring into the Stark gray.
“You know what I meant. Jon is a man. Daenerys Targaryen is supposed to be beautiful. She has two armies and three dragons. Whether she’s coming as an invader or an ally, she’s still coming. After everything we’ve been through to take back the North, she’s still coming. After all the loss a-and t-torture, she’s still coming.” A rush of pain swept through Arya at the break in her sister’s voice. It took her back to the night that Bran had brought them together and told them of the plot to break them apart. They had plotted to kill Littlefinger that night and in the middle of it, Sansa had revealed the true horror that she had experienced at Ramsey’s hand. Arya had been thankful that the Bolton had already been taken care of or else she would have ripped the man apart with her bare hands. Her sister had suffered through things that she never could have imagined but she could understand the uncertainty and betrayal that Sansa must feel. They had found a sense of safety within the walls of Winterfell, something that neither of them had ever thought to hope for.
But there was a threat greater than a Dragon Queen coming for them. They both knew it.
“Her dragons could turn the tide against the Army of the Dead.” Arya reminded her sister gently.
The sisters locked gaze broke when Sansa turned away, her blue eyes now on the fire. “Yes … the Army of the Dead. So what does it matter why Jon bent the knee? We’ll have the support, no matter whether he gave up the North for dragons … or out of love.”
Arya rolled her eyes. “Love is dangerous. It’s foolish.” She could feel her sister’s eyes on her as Sansa turned back to watch her.
“What do you mean by that?”
She shrugged, her hand moving to idly trace the pommel of her dagger. “Of all those ballads about love you listened to as a child, how many of those ended badly?” A soft scoff escaped her. “King Robert loved our Aunt Lyanna so much that he started a war for her and tens of thousands died. Robb loved his wife so much that he broken an oath with Walder Frey to marry her instead of Frey’s daughter. How many more died for that?” It was Arya’s turn to stare into the fire, her thoughts muddled. “Love,” she whispered, “it’s foolish.”
Arya fell silent and could feel her sister watching her with newfound interest. She knew what Sansa must be thinking. Arya Stark, the assassin, the Faceless Man, the Dark Wolf, was talking about love.
“Arya,” Sansa began slowly, her eyes focused on the young woman’s features, “was there someone? In Braavos?”
She swallowed and swore silently as she felt the slightest warmth of embarrassment color her cheeks. “No, not in Braavos.”
“If not Braavos, then where?” Sansa questioned, clearly eager at the chance to learn more about her sister’s time apart from her. Arya knew that she had returned as a stranger, a puzzle that Sansa had struggled so much to understand. The idea of her caring for someone must seem just as strange as the idea of Three Eyed Ravens and dragons and undead men. It has been Sansa who had listened to love stories and dreamt of strong knights as a young girl.
Arya was suddenly consumed with something haunting. It had been years since she had allowed herself to think about the emotions that she had started to feel in the time before. They had been something that she herself had barely understood so how was she supposed to try and explain them to another?
The memories felt like something that belonged to another lifetime, despite the fact that they were from a few years prior. She had been a different person with him, a completely different person. It was before she had been a No One and therefore, the memories should no longer have belonged to her. But it was now that they did worse than belong to her. They haunted her. His ridiculous grin haunted her. When she closed her eyes at night and tried to fight the memories of her loved ones, his ridiculously teasing grin appeared between the sounds of Robb’s laughter and Rickon’s never ending questions. She was haunted by the way he would grin whenever she punched him for being stupid, haunted by the way it felt to lay against him in the cold of night and know that they were as safe as they could be with one another.
And she was haunted by the tears that she had refused to cry when she knew that he planned to abandon her.
Despite all her training, her face must have betrayed her because Sansa’s own face had fallen in the silence between them. Her sister looked almost guilty. “Oh, Arya. I’m so sorry…”
“It’s fine.” Arya responded coolly. “He’s dead now and there’s no use talking about him.”
“But if you cared for him…” Sansa prompted.
“He was a friend I care for. Had he lived … I may not have become what I am now.”
“And what exactly are you now?”
Arya sighed. She was eager to change the subject but she was wary of the opportunity that the conversation had brought. Her return to Winterfell had brought her a sense of warmth back to her and she knew that Sansa treasured the moments when she was able to break through her No One identity to reveal a glimpse of the warm and outspoken annoying younger sister that she had been.
“It no longer matters.” She answered simply before turning to look at her sister once more, the slightest hint of a smile playing across her lips. “What about you, dear sister? Surely one of these northern lords have tried to catch your eye.”
“Some have tried but I’ve been married enough already, thank you.” Sansa answered in an attempt at a dismissive tone.
“Really? Nobody? Not even one of those handsome Knights of the Vale? I’ve heard that Harry Hardyng talk of how he would like to give you a proper Lord’s Kiss.”
“Arya!” Sansa exclaimed in a cross between a scold and laughter. It reminded her so much of the many times in their childhood when her sister had scolded her for one thing or the other. She wanted to laugh as Sansa was laughing when she realized that her sister’s cheeks were almost as red as her hair. “How do you even- I mean- where did you learn of such a thing?!”
She shrugged. “The whores of Braavos like to talk. And there were a lot of whores in Braavos.”
This caught her lady sister’s attention. Sansa straightened her position as she turned to look at her with interest. “And you … did you…”
“I didn’t work as a whore, if that’s what you’re asking.” Arya answered dismissively. She paused as she remembered Lhara and Lanna with their smiles and teasing comments. “Essos is different, it’s … freer. The women I met were kind.” She turned back to Sansa with a smirk. “And they gave great advice, too, though I never took it. But if you wanted to get a little closer to that Harry…”
“I think I’m done for the day.” Sansa said suddenly as she shut her ledger and stood, her cheeks still aflame. Her gaze traveled to the window. “There’s still some light. Would you like to go with me to find Bran?”
“He’ll still be in the godswood.”
“Oh, I know.” Her sister paused with her hand on the door’s latch. “You know, it’s a shame that Sam isn’t afraid of Ghost. If we can’t convince Bran to take better care of himself then maybe we’ll have some luck with him.”
“He’s not afraid of Ghost but he is afraid of me.” Arya smirked as she recalled the way that the Tarly man had jumped repeatedly whenever she had appeared at his side when checking on Bran. “Where is Ghost anyway?” Now that she thought about it, she hadn’t seen the wolf in nearly a day.
Sansa frowned. “Out hunting, I think.” They left her solar and continued through the halls down towards the courtyard that would lead to the godswood. “He seems to know that we can’t afford to feed him so he’s been going out on his own more and more. It must be taking him longer to find food each time.” Arya saw her sister’s frown deepen and knew that she must be thinking about their own food supplies. It was just the other day that the announcement had been made in regards to cutting everyone’s rations once more. Jon had written to say that Queen Daenerys would provide barrels of preserved meats and sacks of grain from her cities in Essos but as they had yet to arrive, nobody could take any chances.
They continued on their way to the godswood, only pausing in the courtyard when Arya had stopped to correct the stance on the Winter Town women who had come to practice their archery. She could feel Sansa smiling at her as she guided a group of women her age in the best way to align their torso prior to letting an arrow. After they had lost their Master-at-Arms two weeks prior to a fever that had taken nearly a dozen others, she had been the one to step in and instruct the majority of the townsfolk who came to the courtyards every day to train.
“You’re good at that you know.” Sansa said softly when Arya had returned to her side. “Teaching, I mean.”
Arya shrugged. “I’m no Ser Rodrick.” She admitted. “I still get frustrated whenever anyone says something about my size or my being a girl. If they say too much then … well, you know.” She broke off and both sisters smiled. They could both recall the morning, just a few days prior when Arya had knocked Lucas Corbray into the snowdrifts after delivering a sweeping kick that had unbalanced him. When the knight moved to charge at her once more in his anger, she had quickly unbalanced him yet again, only this time she had held her Valyrian dagger to his throat until the man had called out his yield. “When Jon and his men arrive, I’ll be eager to spar with someone new.” Arya admitted as they crossed into the godswood. “If you train with the same people for too long then you can get soft.”
“I don’t think anyone would mistake you for being soft.” Sansa said dryly as they came to a stop in front of the great weirwood where Bran sat in his wheelchair, staring off into the unknown. He turned when Sansa called out his name.
“I cannot talk,” whispered Bran. “Please, just let me see.” He turned back to touch the weirwood only for Arya to catch his hand.
“We’re worried about you, Bran. In these last few days, you’ve been so consumed.”
“I have to understand.” Bran explained, turning to look up at his sister. His dark eyes were pleading. “I need to understand.”
Sansa knelt beside his chair, taking his other hand into her own. “But what, Bran? What do you need to understand?”
Bran slumped downwards, pulling both his hands from his sisters’ grasps. “I don’t know,” he admitted in defeat. “But I am so close. There were men beyond the Wall. I need to see.”
“Beyond the Wall?” Arya questioned, searching her brother’s now expressionless face for answers. “Were they fighting the Night King?”
It was then that the sisters heard the sound of footsteps. Both turned to see Samwell Tarly standing a few feet behind the siblings. When Arya turned back to Bran, it was to see that he had already reached out to touch the great weirwood. His eyes were clouded in a clear sign that he was searching somewhere that none of them could imagine. Arya turned back to the Night’s Watchman to see that Sansa had moved towards him.
“What does he mean by beyond the Wall? What has he been trying to see?” Sansa demanded.
Sam took a step back, startled by the redhead’s question. He looked from one sister to the other, clearly conflicted over betraying Bran’s confidence. “I-I I don’t exactly know, Lady Sansa. There’s a lot that he tries to learn with the visions. He tries to learn of the past, of the present. I left for dinner earlier and he had mentioned something about the sea.”
“He can’t keep doing this to himself.” Sansa’s voice was strained as she glanced over her shoulder at her mystery of her brother.
Arya remained silent, watching the scene between the two play out before her. It was clear that they all cared for Bran though Sam seemed to understand what the visions of The Three Eyed Raven could mean. Upon arriving at Winterfell, the man had practically been glued to her brother’s side when he wasn’t with his Wilding wife and son. They were always whispering about one thing or the other while Sam pushed her brother to and from the godswood. He seemed to have grown close with her brother. Or as close as one could get with an emotionless greenseer who had no filter.
A strangled gasp caught their attention and all three turned to see that Bran had fallen from his wheeled chair and was twisting in the snow, his hand now clutching at the root of the tree. Arya was the first to arrive at his side, cradling his head in her lap as she shook him, trying to desperately pull him from his vision. “Bran! You need to wake up. Can you hear me? You need to wake up.” Arya said firmly as she shook his shoulder. Sansa’s terrified face was inches from her own. Her sister looked paler by the second.
“Run for Maester Wolkan.” Sansa ordered, her startled blue eyes never leaving Bran. His body had stopped shaking and his eyes had closed, though he didn’t seem to respond to anything that Arya had said. “Now!” She repeated when she failed to hear the sound of Sam’s footsteps behind her. Her gaze met Arya’s once more. “I’ve never seen this happen.”
“It’s his vision. Something’s happened in his vision.” Arya whispered, her voice soft and tender with concern for their younger brother. She found herself pushing the hair back from his face so that she could see just how pale he had gotten in those few moments. “We need to get him back into the chair.”
Sansa nodded in agreement and moved to take Bran by his legs. The sisters steadied themselves as Arya wrapped her arms around his waist, but when they moved to lift him, Bran’s grip on the weirwood’s root tightened and he began to shake once more. The Stark sisters knelt beside him in horror. “He’s connected to the tree,” whispered Sansa. She reached to cover Bran’s hand with her own. “We can’t move him.”
“We can’t risk hurting him if we try to break the connection.” Arya agreed. She moved so that Bran’s head was in her lap once more. “Sansa, what…”
“He’s going to be okay.” Sansa whispered softly as she too moved to kneel next to their brother.
The seconds that passed between them felt like hours as the sisters sat in silence. Arya couldn’t bring herself to say anything else. She knew that Sansa would be thinking versions of her same thoughts: that they should have reached out to Bran sooner, that they should have done more to get information from him about the Night King, that they should have instructed Maester Wolkan and Sam to be more careful. But none of it mattered in that moment because Bran remained still as one of the statues in their crypt, his face becoming paler with each passing moment. Arya felt Sansa’s hand come to wrap around her own, squeezing it as if trying to convey all her emotions through one touch. She could tell by the way that Sansa gripped her hand that her sister was struggling to keep her emotions in check.
“What do you think-“
But what Sansa thought couldn’t be answered because Bran had started to shake violently, his head and torso thrashing as his hand remained wrapped around the tree’s root. Arya met Sansa’s gaze in alarm. How long had it been since they had sent for Maester Wolkan? In stress of the moment, her father’s own haunting words came back to her. They had been the same words that she had said to Sansa when they stood atop the battlements the day before.
‘In winter we must protect ourselves, look after one another.’
Her little brother was hurt. He was in pain and she couldn’t do a thing to stop it. All her time spent training and there was nothing she could do except cradle his head in her arms and repeatedly command him to wake up. Zhe watched in horror as her brother continued to shake. It was all she could do to control her own emotions as she watched Bran thrash in his arms and Sansa cry out at her side.
Until he stopped.
Bran’s shaking stopped in one sudden moment and he awoke with a strangled gasp, blinking into his surroundings in the godswood that was now dark with night approaching. Sansa leaned in to wrap her arms around her brother, smoothing back his hair as she whispered in his ear. Tears stained her cheeks.
“Bran,” Arya began as she trained her gray gaze on his pale features, “tell us what you saw.”
“The Wall.” Bran gasped as Sansa released him. His eyes were wide with fear and Arya realized in that moment that it was probably the most emotion that she had seen him show since she had returned to Winterfell. His voice was haunted, hollow. “The Wall is gone.”
“That can’t be possible.” Sansa said, shaking her head as if attempting to block out his words. Arya knew what Sansa would be telling herself. She would be remembering that the Wall had stood for thousands of years, that it was 700 feet high and one hundred leagues long. From any builder’s perspective, it was indestructible.
Arya knew better. Nothing was certain, nothing was forever. Just as all men must die, all things could be destroyed.
“How did it happen, Bran? What did you see?” She pressed, her gaze now locked with his.
Bran inhaled deeply, fighting for the breath that seemed to escape him. A strangled sound escape him and his eyes went white once more as he fell into a vision once more.
“Dragon fire brought down the Wall.” He said, his voice now eerily calm as all emotion seemed to have left him once more. “The Night King has a dragon.”