Arya Stark, the little wolf, the girl with ice in her veins, one of the four remaining Starks in the world, a daughter of Winterfell, was cold. To the outside eye, this was to be expected. She was in an isolated corner in the courtyard of Winterfell, the cold steel of Needle in her left hand, the comforting weight of her unnamed dagger at her hip. She wore little in comparison to others around her – just typical breeches, and her well-worn jerkin. The double jacket she so often donned had been abandoned. But she didn't mind, it had been a long time since the frosts of Winterfell affected her.

No, this cold was not from the snow that dusted everything around her. This was an unfixable chill that couldn't be remedied by the exertion of her sparring, moving swiftly, fluidly, silently in the crisp early morning air. This was a biting cold that had been following her for years. It had been there when winter came for House Frey, the deaths, while satisfying, doing little to warm the icy wall in her chest, a wall that could compete with that of Eastwatch. This was a freezing shadow that followed her to the heated shores of Braavos. This was a cold born of sorrow, stemming from the loss of hope that had accompanied the loss of her brother.

Something had broken in Arya Stark that day at the Twins. Some fundamental part of who she was had been lost, and she felt as though the only thing that connected the then and the now was her list. Her list were of people who had wronged the Starks, and Arya Stark couldn't truly die until they did. Only when her list was fulfilled, could she truly become No One. But until then, she had to be Arya Stark once more.

And then she saw Hot Pie, and her world shifted. For once, the gaping, icy hole didn't feel so bottomless. For once, Arya Stark might have had a family. She had long since abandoned that idea that those not related by blood would be her family. She had learned that lesson the hard way, and she had been punished for her hoping, if not physically, then emotionally.

She had given up hope on finding a family. But she didn't need her Stupid Bull to have a family, she had one, and they were waiting for her.

Jon Snow was the King of the North. He was alive, and he was on the right side of the wall, and he was there. He was home. And so, Arya made her choice. She chose to live, and to fight for her family. Because they were all she had, and she had already lost too much.

And then she had seen Sansa. And the cold continued to fade. Her sister, who had preened and pampered herself. Her sister, who had been obsessed with the culture that housed their would-be executioners. But gone was the girl who had dreamt of being a princess. Her sister no longer yearned for a white knight to save her, she had long since abandoned the naïve notion that anyone would come to save her. So, she saved herself. She became her own savior. Unlike Arya, her weapons weren't steel and violence, she wielded words and manipulations, just as effectively. And they had growing pains, and they didn't trust easily. But they came through united. And now the Stark daughters were a formidable pair, who anyone would be a fool to oppose.

But with the changes in her sister, Arya realized that the Jon who was due to return with the foreign Dragon Queen might not be the brother she remembered. She knew she certainly wasn't the sister he remembered, running around Winterfell, a big helmet on her head and even bigger talk of being a knight. She was no knight. She was something worse, something fiercer. Something that may be unrecognizable to her oldest and closest brother. And so, she distracted herself. The nerves that had been building since she heard of his impending return had reached new heights this morning, as their reunion loomed over her. By that evening, he would know her, and know that the sister he knew and loved had died with her father at the Sept. At the Twins with her mother and brother and unborn niece or nephew. With a stupid boy as he had chosen to leave her, and then had been sold against his will.

So, she practiced. She had already gone through two practice dummies since she had arrived at the courtyard that morning. She worked herself, going through routines taught to her by Syrio Forel, by the Hound, by Jaqen H'ghar. Two mentors dead, the other, well, he was No One, and was likely to never be seen again. She combined all of the skills she had acquired, orchestrating her own secret dance that no one else knew the moves to. She created new strikes and parries, new ways to defend herself and cut down her enemies. And as she built and danced and fought, the chill clung to her, an ever-looming presence in the back of her mind, slowly healing, but in no way gone. She felt as people came and left, she noticed Sansa's brief observation of her. She was aware of Brienne and Podrick sparring besides her, before they too left to accomplish the day's tasks. But she didn't stop moving for hours, until she knew her body was close to giving up on her, and she knew that, without water, she would soon fall unconscious. When she looked to the sun above her, she realized that it had passed midday without her noticing. She had been sparring for near 5 hours, with only a short break to relieve herself and drink some water.

Returning Needle to its scabbard, Arya turned to her cask of water. Taking a seat near the wall of Winterfell, where she knew she couldn't be seen by anyone unless they were looking, Arya watched and studied those around her. She allowed her head to fall back until it rested on the stones, stones that were older than she was. No matter her age, no matter how disconnected she felt, she never ceased to be humbled by Winterfell. To know that her family had walked these walls before her, that her father perhaps sat here as well, was a feeling she had yet to fully comprehend. She was so small, in the scheme of things. Generations of Starks had lived here, had fought for Winterfell, for her and her family to be able to rest their heads on the stones. It was the least she could do to keep protecting it.

It felt odd, fighting for something other than revenge.

And then horns sounded, and a cry echoed throughout those ancient walls. A cry she had never heard before, but she had dreamt of. It was the cry of a dragon.

Forcing herself to take her time, Arya shifted to her feet, so she was squatting. Removing her gloves, she washed her hands, having the melting snow leave them clean, as she had seen her father do countless times before. She brought some snow to her face, truly awakening her mind and clearing her skin of sweat and dirt. She knew not who accompanied her brother in his return, but she had to be ready for anything. She might not see as much as her younger brother these days, but she still saw more than most, and she had to use that ability to protect her pack.

She crossed the practice yard to where her jacket had been discarded in a heap. She slowly buttoned up the top, and then checked to make sure Needle and her dagger were in place. Uncharacteristically nervous, Arya ran her still damp hands over her hair, before putting her gloves back on.

Taking a deep breath, she sharply turned, and promptly headed towards the main gate, where her family waited.

The yard by the gates were already crowded by the time of her arrival. She could see Sansa's telltale red hair at the front of the retinue. Next to her sat Bran, his chair being manned by the round figure of Samwell Tarly. She could see Sansa searching the crowds. Arya's sister maintained the perfect façade of the calm and collected Lady Stark, but Arya knew Sansa searched for her. Yet Arya clung to the edges of the crowd, staying mostly unseen for the time being. The sisters' eyes met as the gates began to open, and Sansa barely had the time to furrow her eyebrows in confusion before she turned to adopt the part she was born to play.

Arya knew where he was. She could see, in abstract, the figure that sat next to the silver haired queen, however she refused to allow herself the distraction. Instead, she scanned those that accompanied them. Unfortunately, many in the party were hidden, still not having made it through the gates yet. She noted an older man, next to where her brother sat. He was likely Ser Davos – Sansa had told her of his loyalty to Jon, he was safe. The imp, Tyrion Lannister, sat to the Dragon Queen's left. She hadn't seen him since the Baratheon's and Lannister's had first come to Winterfell. She knew that he had declared for House Targaryen. She recalled what Sansa had told her of his behavior. How Sansa claimed he had acted with kindness. Arya refused to mistake kindness with basic human decency, however Sansa held a level of respect for him, and Arya trusted her sister. So, the imp was safe, at least for now. Next to the Imp sat a tall man, with eyes that were strikingly similar to those of Lyanna Mormont's. The way he kept glancing at the Queen indicated he was extremely dedicated to her. Arya surmised that he was probably in love. She guessed he would likely lay down his life for the Queen. That could be dangerous. He, too, would have to be watched. Next to the man in love with the Queen there was a young woman with skin darker than the rest. She had beautifully wild hair, and she sat with an unnaturally straight back. Arya had seen that type of discipline before, in the higher-class slaves in Braavos. Which made sense when paired with the man sitting next to her. He had skin color similar to the woman, and his faced showed nothing of his emotions. He sat grim, somber, and focused, eyes scanning the crowd at Winterfell, similar to Arya. Based on the shaved head and the uniform, Arya deduced that this was a member of the Unsullied. She had heard word of the Targaryen Queen freeing the Unsullied when she was in Braavos, and had heard of the Unsullied at length prior to that. The Queen had an interesting combination for her army. Arya wondered how the silent solemnity of the Unsullied would work with the barbaric fervor of the Dothraki, who she could hear in the distance.

Arya eyed the Dragon Queen, as she stood a few steps behind where Arya knew Jon was. Who was this ruler that freed nations, befriended such a wide variety of people, and united two of the most powerful armies on the Southern Continent.

The crowd shifted. Arya's attention was focused close enough to her brother, that her discipline immediately faltered, and her eyes found Jon's dark curly hair. One of his hands was still rested on Bran's shoulder, but Jon was now hugging Sansa. A private, worried embrace, something unlike what Arya had ever seen from them. She knew Sansa's opinions on Jon had changed, but she hadn't known how close they had grown. It seems that her siblings weren't the only thing that changed, apparently their relationships changed, too.

Jon stepped back from Sansa, but only slightly. They remained in hushed conversation, speaking at tones which Arya couldn't quite hear, but she could confidently guess what was being said. As if to prove her suspicion, Sansa pivoted, no longer obstructing the line of sight between Arya and Jon. Jon's eyes quickly shifted towards where Sansa motioned, and Arya stopped breathing for a moment. She could see Jon release one, ragged breath, and falter a moment, taking a half step back. Arya felt her spine straighten.

Appearance wise, he hadn't changed. His face is more weathered, there are a few new scars. He wears his hair how their father used to, except in a knot as opposed to loose. He looks so, so tired. For a moment, Arya is filled with ice cold anger at this responsibility that was thrust upon him.

She hardly notices that the crowd has parted between them, leaving room for them to greet each other. Arya struggles to school her features into the composed face of No One. She has to consciously refrain from sprinting to her brother. Instead, with a calm that in no way matched the tempest roaring inside her, she begins her slow walk towards Jon. She knows that it has only been a few seconds, but it feels like they have been walking to each other for an hour. When they're about 10 feet away from each other, she hears Jon breathe her name. No one has ever quite said it like her brother did, almost like there was no 'r.' And that, for some reason, breaks her resolve. Any restraint she had shatters because when her brother says her name, it hits her that he is actually there, and she is really home. All of sudden, she is 13 years old again, and her favorite brother, the only person who ever truly understood her is leaving for the Wall, and she might not ever see him again. It takes all she has not to cry out as she runs to him, jumping and throwing her arms around his neck like she used to. He doesn't react right away, but after a moment, she hears him say her name again, stronger this time, and he wraps his arms around her. Her feet still hang in the air, like they did when she was a young girl. In that moment, No One is gone, and Arya Stark was truly home.

Jon was actually here. And he is real.

"I can't believe you're alive." He says, his voice as gravelly as ever. He puts her down, but his gloved hands remain cradling her face, as if he thought if he stopped touching her, she'd disappear.

"I can't believe I'm alive either." She mutters, a small smile on her face. But its genuine. One of the few genuine smiles she has had in years. "I'd say I can't believe you're alive, but if what Sansa tells me is true, you weren't, for a while." Her smile remains, but it's more forced, now.

"Aye. A lot has happened when we were apart." Jon says, still with joy in his eyes, but grimmer.

Arya nods, and shifts so that Sansa is a part of the moment, "to all of us."

Sansa steps forward, joining her siblings. "Let's do our best to stay together from now on, alright?"

Jon chuckles, "I'll do my best."

Sansa squares her gaze on Arya, expecting an answer to her rhetorical question. "I'll try," she states, simply.

Jon stares at Arya a moment longer, as though assuring himself that she is real, before turning to Sansa and asking about the state of Winterfell, and how preparations were coming along.

Years ago, she might have been embarrassed about her emotional show in front of so many people. But the people of Winterfell had heard of her encounter with Littlefinger, and knew what she was capable of. And the members of the Queen's party, well, she owed them nothing. They would learn of her abilities soon enough.

Movement behind Jon distracted Arya from her thoughts, and when she sees the source, she freezes.

Unlike with Jon, she regains her composure quickly. Locking her fingers behind her back, Arya crosses to where The Hound is helping with the horses.

He looks up when she reaches him, and doesn't look happy or angry or scared. Just disgruntled.

"So," he begins, "You lived."

"Aye. As did you." Arya replies, unimpressed.

"Despite my best efforts. You gonna change that, Little Wolf?"

The nickname didn't spark the anger in her that it used to.

"Don't worry, Hound. Once a name is off the list, it's off for good."

"Wonderful, I'll be able to sleep tonight."

Arya smiled wickedly, "I wouldn't go that far. Courtyard. Tomorrow. Sunrise. I want to hear the story of how you lived. And how you met my brother. And then we spar, because you might not be on the list anymore, but that doesn't mean I don't want to beat you."

"Yea, alright. If we are going to be talking so much, we should probably fight after. We need to keep something normal," The Hound looked to be angry that he had such a reaction to Arya. Before she could comment on it, his eyes focused on something behind her, and he said "Hey, Little Wolf. Go easy on him."

Arya's brows knitted in confusion. But before she could ask what The Hound meant, someone else said her name, and her blood ran cold.

She stiffened. She doesn't want to look. If she doesn't look, she can pretend that its him, and he's alive, and he's here. Or she can pretend he isn't here, and she doesn't have to face the buried emotions that accompany their relationship.

He doesn't give her a choice. "Arry?" She hears again, still behind her, but closer now. He's nervous, she realizes. Good, the dark part of her thinks.

"Oh, for fucks sake." The Hound sounds exasperated. He grabs Arya's shoulders, and before she can even protest, he flips her around. Any other day, and he would have a broken hand.

His hair is shorter. And he looks bigger. The anxiety is painted on his face – he has never been good at hiding his emotions. Her training has her noting the hammer strapped to his belt. His father's weapon. So, he has acknowledged that his father was Robert Baratheon – that's new.

"Gendry."

Something in his face collapses when she says his name. He releases a breath that it seems he had been holding ages.

Slowly, she walks up to him. "Arry –" he starts, but before he can finish she winds her arms around him, head buried in his chest. His arms hover above her for a moment, before he wraps them around her, tighter than he ever had before. "Arry –," he tries again.

Arya cuts him off, pulling back to look at him. "Arya. It's Arya Stark. I don't have to hide who I am now, and I don't intend to do so again, not with my family."

His hand finds the back of her head, cradling it, as he pulls her back into his arms. "You'll always be Arry to me." He takes a shuddering breath, "I am so so—"

"Shut up, you Stupid Bull. I don't want to hear it. I am so mad at you, so you don't get to talk, at least not yet."

She can feel him smile against her head, "as m'Lady commands."

"Don't call me m'Lady," she exclaims, reflexively, reeling her head back to glare at him.

"Would you prefer Princess?" He jests.

"Gendry Waters, I already want to throttle you, don't make me want to cut you open—"

"Arya!" She heard Jon cry, but she ignored him.

"I am Arya Stark. I am not a lady. I am not a princess. I am a fighter, and I am your equal. So, stop with all of that m'Lady business, Gendry Waters."

"Baratheon." Was all he said.

"Excuse me?" Arya whipped her head towards the Dragon Queen, then back to Gendry. If the young Targaryen knew Gendry was Robert's son, who knew how she would react.

"Baratheon. It's Gendry Baratheon. Jon knows, and the Queen knows. I don't care who my father was. I don't want the throne. And I don't care about who your father was, other than him being a good man. It doesn't matter our family name. You'll always be m'Lady." The intensity of his gaze made Arya want to squirm, and she likely would have if it weren't for her time with the Faceless Men.

Arya searched his eyes for something indistinguishable. Eventually, she sighed and hugged him once more, calling him "stupid bull," with her cheek against his chest. She felt the reverberations of his chuckles.

The moment is interrupted by Jon, asking "Gendry, we spent all that time across the wall and you failed to mention you knew Arya?"

"You went behind the wall? Do you know how dangerous that is, Stupid?" Arya slapped his arm before Gendry had a chance to answer.

"I was protecting your brother!" Gendry defended himself, before turning to Jon. "I didn't tell you because I wasn't sure your sister would have wanted to talk about me, much less talk to me. We traveled together for a while, before her time with the Hound."

"It seems we have more to catch up on than I thought." Jon says, eyeing Arya curiously.

"Wait until she tells you about Braavos. And the House of the Black and White. And don't ask about the pies." Sansa added, giving Arya a knowing smile. Arya glared in return.

Despite this, Arya couldn't help the smile on her face. For the first time in almost seven years, Arya was surrounded by family. A foreign warmth was spreading over her body. Arya realized that she might have forgotten what it was to be happy. For once her mind wasn't caught on those she had lost, but turned towards what she still had. She had her sister, her brothers, Gendry. She had a family.

"I'm sorry," an unfamiliar voice chimed in. Jon shifted so the Dragon Queen could join the little circle they had formed. "You spent time in Braavos? I don't think we have officially met. I'm Daenerys Targaryen – but I'm sure you know that. At some point I'd love to talk about your time in Braavos."

Arya observed her warily, before nodding. She didn't know what the Dragon Queen would want to talk to her for, but something in her look made Arya think it would be quite the interesting conversation.

"Unfortunately," the vacant voice of Bran disrupted the reunion, "we don't have time for that. The Wall has fallen. Jon, Sam and I need to talk to you now. The Night King is coming, and he is coming on a dragon."