Her cheeks are wet.
Arya hates crying. She always has. But the feeling is welcome now, because she's home. The tickling tracks of the tears remind her of where she is. That, and Jon's hand in her own. She is home, with the last of her pack.
Nymeria and Ghost trail behind them as they enter the Great Hall. It is stifling in here, compared to the bitter and unforgiving winds of winter that have been striking her ever since she left the Twins. The hall is full of the same light she remembered it to have; dim and warm. There is no music now; no feast. Only three figures whispering around a table.
One is a tall burly man in a sheepskin cloak. Old Nan always said that wildlings wore sheepskin. She figures that this man must be one.
The other is short, with grey hair and a grey beard, wearing a dark grey cloak and fiddling with some wooden figure in his hands. Arya doesn't know him. She doesn't know the wildling, either. She knows only Jon, and Ghost.
And Sansa.
She is standing imposingly at the end of the table, watching the two men as they bicker. She looks so different, but still she is the same. Her hair is still red, but it is tied back in a northern style she knows very well, not the southron way Sansa was wearing it when Arya saw her last.
Her skin is pale, not tinged with pink from the unbearable heat of King's Landing.
Her eyes used to be warm. Used to be soft. Like a river. Now they are ice. They're as cold and unforgiving as steel. Arya stares at her sister approvingly. She has grown up, like Arya always wished she would, but not the way she wanted her to.
The two men cease their bickering when they lay eyes upon Jon and Arya. Silence fills the hall. And then Sansa turns.
Arya has already let go of Jon, regretful and afraid of the action but she does it all the same. Sansa draws in a sharp breath. But they don't run to each other. Arya just keeps walking slowly, hand on Needle, and Sansa only waits.
"You're tall," Arya says when she's only two feet away. "You look like Mother."
"And you look like Father," Sansa laughs, but Arya can barely hear her over the pounding in her chest and when Sansa closes the distance, she can barely feel her for the heat of her own skin is burning her.
Arya closes her eyes and breathes in the familiar scent of lemons and snow. Her sister. She holds one hand on the back of Sansa's head and the other is digging into her back. They are together. "Seven hells, San," Arya whispers.
Sansa pulls back and cups Arya's face, inspecting it for scars and hurts. There are plenty. Her skin has not come out unblemished in the wars and battles she has fought. Arya has been torn apart piece after piece, and here is Sansa offering to give one back.
She takes it, and she feels a little more whole.