Author Note: How did Arya get past all the wights into the Godswood to kill the Night King? What happened between her leaving Melisandre and the climactic end of the Battle of Winterfell? One man's attempt to answer that question.
Melisandre's words rang in Arya's head. "What do we say to the God of Death?"
Arya had said so many things to the God of Death - breathed prayers, shouted angrily, demanded haughtily and more. But the God of Death didn't listen to Arya Stark. The God of Death listened to noone. The God of Death listened….
Realization bloomed in her head. Everything in Braavos, the House of Black and White and more, had trained her for this. Her entire life was directed to this exact hour, or so it seemed to Arya Stark. It was just as likely Jon Snow would kill the Night King. But she had to act - she had to do her part to the best of her ability. "Not today", she said meaningfully and took off running.
As she ran, the girl who was often Arya Stark reached back through her memories. She began a once-familiar mantra, now rusty with disuse. She ran towards the Godswood where the Night King waited, and as she ran, she breathed to herself. "I am a girl. I am not Arya. I am not a seller of cockerels and clams. I am just a girl. A girl is no one of note. A girl is not I, a girl is simply the hand of death. A girl is no one important." On and on the litany repeated, with minor changes.
Why did a girl have Arya Stark's sword? Needle was a fine weapon, but it belonged to someone. It belonged to Arya. If Arya Stark had need of it after the battle, then she would have to find it.
Needle clattered to the floor, at some unimportant location in Winterfell.
"A girl has no need of anyone's things. A girl is no one special. A girl is but a face of death."
When the girl had worn Arya Stark, it had fit like an old uniform, once familiar but now tight and stiff as the girl had grown and Arya had not. Now, as the girl slowed her run to a walk, she took off that tight uniform and become simply a girl. She was a faceless girl, just another person in a crowd.
She still wore Arya Stark's skin, but the skin didn't matter. What mattered was how a girl saw herself, what mattered was how a girl interacted with the world. Skin was just … skin. Yes, this skin was bleeding and bruised, but that had almost ceased to matter. Briefly, she thought about taking the skin of a wight, but most of them had none to take. Besides, preparing another body and face took time, time that a girl did not have.
She also wore Arya Stark's clothes, but the clothes also didn't matter. They were not really Arya's - they had simply been available and had fit. That the clothes also fit a girl was interesting but not particularly relevant. Clothes made a person even less than skin did.
A girl spotted a wight as she walked around a corner. Part of the girl's mind whimpered and she retreated again quickly. What was she doing? How did this help? She could hear the undead thing, the personification of death, coming for her. Wights would, and did, kill anyone they encountered. Unlike the Facemen Men, who sought specific targets in service of the Many-Faced Gods, wights were wanton. Wights brought everyone to the God of Death, as quickly and indiscriminately as possible.
But she was Faceless. She was just A Girl. A Girl walked safely through the halls of Winterfell, did she not?
She did not, not this seemingly-eternal night. Gibbering, the wight rounded the corner and came for A Girl. Wights killed all living things, even the Faceless.
But this Faceless Girl was armed. And dangerous. A dagger of Valyrian steel materialized in A Girl's left hand, as if by magic. Without breaking the mantra of "I am just A Girl. A Girl is in Winterfell. A Girl has been charged to kill the Night King. A Girl must do as she is commanded", A Girl struck. And a wight fell - once again fully in the embrace of the God of Death.
But A Girl felt fear. A Girl saw a face of death that did not care who she was. Or who she wasn't. That face of death only cared that she was alive. The wights raised by the Night King would kill anyone.
A Girl thought as she walked only barely familiar halls towards her date with Death. It was not enough to simply be A Girl. A Girl had to truly become noone. As her short legs beat out the rhythm of her walk, her mind found a different rhythm. "A Girl is noone. No one." Left leg, "No", right leg, "one". Left leg, inhale, "NO". Right leg, exhale, "ONE."
Unlike the carelessly discarded Arya, No One was not tight - No One was ill-fitting and sagged off the girl, exposing things best left covered. No One was a huge expanse that surrounded A Girl and draped haphazardly. No One did not fit and never had.
In, left, no. Out, right, one.
As one part of A Girl's brain continued to breathe that refrain, another considered No One. No One was Death. A Girl had to die in order to become No One. A Girl was afraid to die, but sometimes A Girl has to be brave. A Girl began to weep silently as she died to become No One - the tears freshened the blood on her face and they dripped together off her cheek and chin.
Then, No One thought of the dagger carried in a hand. Why did No One have this dagger?
A part of No One realized the importance of Valyrian Steel, but it was more important to be No One than to have a dagger.
"Is this anyone's dagger?" Memories swam behind No One's leaking eyes. The dagger, proffered hilt-first to a variety of people - a beautiful red-haired girl, a horse-faced fighter, and others. None claimed it. No One looked closely at the dagger and saw more of its history. The dagger had stabbed many, but every time an owner was sought, none was found. A series of people - some very short, some tall, some male, others not - all denied owning the dagger. Yes, they had carried, and even used it. But they never truly owned it. The dagger belonged, by right, to No One. A cold smile showed on No One's face.
In, left, No. Out, right, One.
No One strode more purposefully through the halls. Wights walked near No One, but wights only killed people. Wights couldn't kill No One. No One was like them - No One was but an aspect of death. The wights ignore No One as certainly and casually as they ignored each other.
No One barely noticed as the halls opened to a cold, dark sky. No One knew where to go. No One knew where the only being that mattered was. For No One's date with death was far from complete.
As No One pressed through a gathering ring of wights, a boy in a wheelchair stirred slightly and looked into another face of the Many-Faced God of Death.
No One moved like wind past other stonelike faces of Death. Unlike them, No One's focus wasn't on the Night King's hand reaching for his sword, No One watched the boy.
The boy, her brother, Bran! He was in danger. Arya Stark suddenly wavered into focus and screamed as she stabbed toward the Night King's face.
The Night King spun and caught Arya's hand.
And, as quickly as she had appeared, Arya disappeared again. No One dropped the dagger. No One caught the dagger. And it was No One who stabbed No One's dagger into the Night King, giving Death one fewer face.
For the God of Death truly listened to No One.