Jon had hugged her tighter than he did seven years ago, and she'd hugged him right back. It's funny. Over the years, she did not consider herself much of a hugger. Not anymore. She'd seen too much, and lost too many people to think she would ever hug anyone that fierce again. But she'd hugged Sansa, and Bran, and when Jon returned to Winterfell, it felt exactly like seven years ago. She felt like seven years ago. She felt like Arya Stark again. Or what was left of her. They'd laughed and compared a few scars, some of his quite recent, the stupid fool, and he'd promised her they would talk more. But for now, he had business to discuss with the other men who had come to Winterfell with him. She hadn't seen any of them yet, but Brienne had muttered something about 'that bloody ginger Wildling' and had promptly decided she would train Pod some more.
And so here she was now, roaming the halls and yards of Winterfell once again. Sansa was with Jon, discussing business with him, as the Lady of Winterfell should. It still felt odd to call her that, and yet Arya had been forced to admit Sansa was good at it. She knew what to do and what to say, and Arya had felt more than a hint of admiration when Sansa had confronted Littlefinger, and allowed Arya to swing the sword. She did not think Sansa had it in her. In any case, she knew how to play her role. Arya, on the other hand, felt like a wanderer. Ever since she'd returned home, she didn't know quite who she was. What role she would play. She'd been so many people these last years, and she'd been no one. It had been necessary, but the more names she'd used, the further away she'd been from being Arya Stark. And telling people who she was, did not make her feel like her. She felt uncomfortable in her own skin, and she longed for the days when she was simply Arya Stark of Winterfell. Arya, the girl who shot arrows in Bran's place during target practice and threw food at Sansa during dinner. Arya, who trained with Syrio Forel and traveled with Gendry and Hot Pie so she could go home. Arya Stark had slowly disappeared after that. Gendry was her last connection to anything that felt remotely familiar and safe. When the Red Woman took him, and she'd been left with the Hound, Arya Stark, even Arry, began to fade away.
She stopped when she heard the rustle of the leafs. Without realizing, she'd wandered into godswood and had somehow found her way to the heart tree. She wasn't surprised to find Bran there. He spend most of his time at the sacred tree, staring blankly ahead, becoming an animal or ten in the process. Gods if she knew what it all meant. Sansa told her Bran could see the past, present and future, and had seen her during her wedding to that fucking cunt Ramsay Bolton. Although Sansa wouldn't say it out loud, Arya knew she didn't feel at ease around Bran. She didn't want to know to future, and she didn't want to live in the past, she'd replied, before changing the subject. But Arya didn't mind. There wasn't much Bran could tell her that would make her uneasy, even if the future would be bleak and full of death.
She quietly sat down on the tree bark next to Bran, whose eyes had gone white again. She waited patiently, minutes ticking away while she watched the snow fall down, covering everything that hadn't turned completely white yet. It was always snowing nowadays, and it would be snowing for quite a while.
"He's here." She startled when Bran spoke without a warning. Here in the woods, his voice sounded almost too loud, like it might awaken something if he wouldn't speak in more hushed tones.
"Jon? Yeah, he arrived this morning. He would love to see you."
"I will see him tonight at the feast."
Arya said nothing, but smiled sadly. He wasn't himself anymore either. Not the Bran from years ago who would climb the walls and towers of winterfell, and shot arrows at anything but the target.
"He will start to make arrangements soon."
Arya frowned. "What sort of arrangements?"
"He's here," Bran repeated, although to no one in particular.
"Yes, you said that. What sort of arrangements, Bran?"
Bran didn't reply for a few minutes, his gaze once again unfocussed.
Then, he spoke. "A stag will marry a wolf at last."