WARNING for spoilers for 8.03, The Long Night
Arya kneels among the snow and ice, and lays one hand on the cold earth. The Night King's shattered remains cut into her palm and freeze her skin, but she welcomes the feeling. It reminds her that she is, somehow, alive. A drop of blood drips from her head and stains the snow. Another sign, then.
In the silence, with dead men's bones scattered around her, it sinks in that the War is truly ended. That she has ended it. People will come soon, she realises, people looking for answers. They will not expect her, she is sure of that. The Dragon Queen, maybe, and perhaps Jon, but not her. Not Arya.
She looks up at Bran again, and he just smiles plainly at her. He knew, she thinks. He knew it was me.
But of course he did; Arya won't pretend to understand her brother's powers, but something in his gaze tells her that he had known. He had given her the dagger, after all. The dagger that is still clutched tightly in her hand, the blade covered with an icy fog in place of blood. They had all thought that he would be impossible to kill, but, in the end, it had been strangely simple. Not easy, no one could call any of this easy, but it seems strange that all it had taken was a dagger to the heart, just like any other man.
But then, Bran had told them that he was a man, once. And Arya knows that all men must die.
"Valar Morghulis," she whispers.
Jon finds them first, not long later. Dawn is still just barely bleeding onto the sky, light filtering through the leaves of the heart tree and sparking off the snow.
"Arya," he says. He sounds tired.
Jon approaches slowly, but she doesn't turn to face him. He stands for a moment and surveys the carnage, then kneels in front of her, cupping her face.
"Arya," he repeats, and this time she does look up. He looks her up and down, noticing the dagger, and when his eyes return to her face there's something akin to pride in them. He presses a kiss to her forehead, heedless of the blood smeared across it, and Arya leans into it, closing her eyes and breathing out shakily.
"It's over," Bran says calmly, and Jon pulls away from her to face him. She misses his warmth almost immediately, suddenly realising how long she's been kneeling for. She struggles to her feet, stumbling a little as she does so, then limps over to Bran, positioning herself behind his chair.
"We should go," she tells Jon, and he nods. He offers to push Bran for her, but Arya shakes her head. They walk slowly out of the godswood, doing their best not to look at the many bodies that lie in their path. Dawn has truly broken by the time they make it out, but it does not inspire the hope Arya had thought it might. It is a symbol of what they have won, yes, but it only illuminates everything they have lost.
Sansa cries when she sees Arya, rushing forward and pulling her into a tight hug. It's strange to see Sansa cry these days; Arya used to tease her about it when they were girls, but she's come to realise that the Sansa of now is a different person entirely.
When they finally separate, Arya notices that she still has the dragonglass dagger clutched in her hand. Arya gently pries it from her fingers and Sansa lets her, looking surprised that she's still holding it.
"Did you use it?" she asks, and Sansa's gaze drops.
"Once or twice," she admits quietly. Arya notices that her hands have begun to shake, so she tucks the dagger away and puts a hand on her sister's arm. Sansa looks startled by the gesture, looking up at her, confused. Then she frowns and reaches up to brush at Arya's wound.
"Your head..." she murmurs, then leads Arya to the makeshift healers' area, which is mostly just Maester Wolkan and a few of the least injured. Arya lets herself be pulled away; there will be time enough to swap stories later, she knows. For now, she would rest.
Later, she finds herself sitting alone in the godswood, next to the pool near the heart tree. She does not know why she is here; perhaps it is some morbid fascination, or some desire to make sure he is really gone. Or perhaps not - she does not know. As a girl, she had come here often, although she can't remember now what she had prayed for. Stupid things, probably, all irrelevant now.
It seems right, somehow, that it all happened here, in this place of the Old Gods. Arya doesn't believe in them anymore; she's been Death's servant for far too long to think that they could be real, but she supposes that Death is the oldest god of them all. It is only fitting that He should die here.
Gendry finds her here, when the sun is high overhead and some of the night's chill has ebbed away. She turns towards him, and they both stare silently for a moment, him shifting his weight awkwardly.
"Glad you're alive," he says eventually, taking a few hesitant steps forward.
She nods and smiles briefly. "Yeah, you too."
There's another beat of silence before Gendry clears his throat almost nervously. "They're saying it was you who... you know." He gestures to the collapsed wights. "That true?"
She breaks his gaze and nods once. Gendry breathes out sharply, then asks, "How?"
She pulls the dagger out of her belt and turns in in her hands. "I guess being a rich girl has some benefits after all," she says, finally looking back up at him. He laughs quietly, and she smiles too, sliding her dagger back into place and walking over to him. He looks suddenly nervous, wearing that same expression from the night before the battle. She puts a hand on the back of his neck and draws him down to kiss her, and it is soft and slow and gentle, with none of the urgency of that night. That had been a time when they thought they would all be dead by sunrise; now is a time to be alive. Arya wonders briefly if it is wrong to do this in a holy place, but somehow, she thinks, the gods won't mind.
Before anyone says anything about how Sansa didn't use the dagger Arya gave her, Sophie Turner said that she filmed a scene where she stabbed some wights but they were cut from the episode.