Before composing herself, Arya allowed for a few moments of weakness as she considered her options. The longer she sat in the hallway mulling over the dire vision, the more she felt that devastation dissolving within the boiling pot of her anger. They still had time left to ensure an alternative outcome, though admittedly, not much.
Adjacent to Bran's room was Rickon's old room, since repurposed for Samwell Tarly and his family. It was good to see her brother's old room go to use rather than sit unused, gathering dust as a shrine to his death.
After all, Sam was Jon's closest friend, and arguably Bran's as well, assuming he could have friends in his dormant state. Arya hadn't spoken much to Samwell, no one had, really, as he'd always been locked away with the many books he'd brought from Oldtown's Citadel. More importantly, Sam had been helping Bran direct his visions in more constructive ways. After all, with little to no emotion, Bran had nothing to steer him in the right direction. While Bran's apathy incensed most who tried to crack his icy exterior, Sam's patience with the boy had never faltered.
Rising to her feet, she walked to her youngest brother's old room, lightly knocking against the wood as unwelcome memories of little Rickon flooded her mind. Forever preserved in her mind's eye as the little wolf of Winterfell—the bleary image of a rowdy boy standing before the silhouette of a dark direwolf, looming just beyond him. Tears welled in her eyes as she remembered her brother. Arya smiled as she wiped them away, a pang of sadness tugging at her aching heart. Though she'd lived more years without him than with him, she missed her baby brother terribly.
As she patiently awaited an answer to her knock, the conversation behind the closed door had since halted. Instead, the voices gave way to a hectic shuffling. After another moment, an exhausted-looking Gilly opened the door with baby Sam at her hip. Simply staring at Arya, wide-eyed, the mousy-haired woman said nothing, not even hello.
"I don't mean to intrude, but I was hoping to talk to Samwell," she said. Mouth agape, Gilly simply stared at her, until Arya added, "It's urgent."
"Of course, m'lady," she hesitantly said after a moment, blinking her eyes rapidly as if coming to after a deep slumber. She stepped aside, allowing Arya to pass before gently shutting the door behind them.
The room had been in a state of disarray, books placed on nearly every surface, weighted objects holding them open to designated pages. Scribbled papers had been strewn about, seemingly without rhyme or reason. It's no wonder Gilly had been in something of a daze. They had clearly been shut away trying their best to find answers, likely at the expense of their own wellbeing.
Arya reached out to grab one of the random sheets of parchment closest to where she'd stood. It had a series of strange patterns—hollowed rings, spirals and circles. After a quick scan of her memory, she couldn't place them.
"Do these mean anything?" she asked before turning the page toward Sam.
He seemed to snap out of his own daze upon hearing her voice. When he looked up at her, she noticed something that had escaped her an hour or so ago when she first saw him. The skin surrounding his eyes had been dark, almost ashy. He looked deliriously exhausted, just like Gilly.
"That's what I'm working on. Bran's been seeing these symbols in his visions. It might be that they're trying to communicate with him through these images."
Arya looked at the sheet once more, hoping to discern a message or pattern from the seemingly random shapes.
"I saw something similar once, north of the Wall," he added.
"North of the Wall?" she asked, hoping he'd continue as she further examined the marks.
"We came upon a cache of dragonglass under the snow. It was wrapped in a Night's Watch cloak and stashed beneath a stone carving. Whoever left that cache there must've done so as a warning or a clue."
Heaving a sigh, Arya knew that now was the time to broach the topic that led her to Sam in the first place, "Speaking of clues, Bran just dropped a pretty significant one on me just now."
"Oh, no," Sam whispered as his eyes fell closed.
"He made it sound as though Jon must know the truth about himself before the end."
"Arya," Sam said, softening his tone as if to comfort her, "No one fully understands the visions, not even Bran. I wouldn't say it guarantees Jon's... death."
"Well, what exactly did he see? Did he tell you?"
Sam's chest deflated as he heaved a sigh of his own, "He saw Jon falling to his knees before the Night King with a smile on his face, just before succumbing to his wounds. From what I gather, it was just a momentary flash out of context, though the context is not hard to guess."
"Has he seen anything else of the future?"
"King's Landing in ruins, or, the Red Keep at least. The same sort of flash, without any context."
Arya fell into the seat across from Sam, folding her arms over crossed legs. "No," she stubbornly said.
"No?"
"He's not going to die," she firmly stated. "I won't allow it. If Bran is being shown this vision, then perhaps it's because we're meant to stop it from happening."
Sam didn't say anything in response, rather he looked out the small window, showing nothing but white as far as the eye could see. It was then she realized how much Jon had truly meant to him. Good, she thought, If we work together, we might just save him, yet.
"I'd like to help. I haven't had anything constructive to do and I'm sick of milling about and biding my time. Put me to work, Sam," she pleaded. "Show me what to read, tell me how to help my brothers."
. . .
"You look like you've seen a ghost, girl," a deep voice rattled above her.
Arya snapped from her gaze, aimlessly hanging on the battlements, painted white with snow. In her distraction, she'd failed to recognize the sound of his footfalls, perhaps disguised in the distant rumbling of restless soldiers, just waiting for the chance to die for their Queen.
Turning to Sandor, she smirked, "Yours, for instance?"
Snorting in amusement, he pushed his arm against the wall for support as he leaned in, "Speaking of—made any more progress on that list of doomed men?"
"Some," she admitted. "Though I hear Thoros is already gone."
"Aye," he confirmed, his voice matching his suddenly grave expression.
"You, too, Hound?"
"What do you mean me too?"
"Gendry looked upset about Thoros, too, when he told me he had died. And now you, as well."
"Gendry? The whinger?"
"Whinger?" Arya scrunched her face up, "What's that mean?"
"Means he did nothin' but complain the whole time north of the Wall. Whinged about the cold, being sold to a naked witch who tried to kill him... You name it, he bitched it."
A naked witch? Arya wondered, trying not to look visibly shaken by the sudden, abhorrent image of the Red Woman naked with Gendry. Had she been the one...? Somewhere behind her steely demeanor, her heart had fallen right from her chest and into the pit of her stomach. Quickly, she managed to twist the unwanted nausea into yet more anger, channeling it right at Sandor, instead. "You give others too much credit for their... aliveness," she snapped.
"Alive...ness?"
"If you can make up words, so can I."
"Whinging is a word, girl."
She shrugged. "So is... aliveness," she insisted, though in truth she hadn't been so sure. "Regardless. My point still stands."
"Did you have a point? Could've fooled me," his voice was biting but his expression gave him away. He was enjoying himself.
"You've always acted as if being alive is the single most important thing there is."
"Is it not?"
"No, it isn't," she hissed. "My father is still better than any living man, and today, he's little more than a memory and a pile of bones. Sometimes those that live only do so out of sheer luck or treachery."
"What does this have to do with the whinger?"
"Stop calling him that," she warned him with a low growl.
"I'll stop callin' him that when he stops whingin'," he chuckled, folding his arms.
She merely sighed, "Let's say you're right, and being alive is the most important thing there is. If you can't complain about nearly being killed, then what can you complain about?"
"Nothing, preferably."
"And you wonder why no one likes you," she flatly said, the hint of a smirk on her face.
"That's one thing I don't wonder about," he laughed. "But you seem to like me. That does make me wonder."
"I'm starting to wonder why, myself," she snapped again, though she was secretly delighted to be bickering with him. She'd missed it, particularly after spending so much time in Braavos. The faceless men had bland, tasteless personalities, nothing with which to whet her wit and keep her sharp.
Wondering why the conversation had come to a sudden standstill, it was then that she spotted Sansa in the distance. Red hair like a fire against the dull, colorless palette of snow, ice, and stone.
"Your sister likes me, too," he said as she approached.
"I doubt it," Arya snidely scoffed as the pair of them eyed Sansa. She wasn't sure what to make of Sandor's tone just now, regarding her older sister whom she felt protective of. After all, Sansa was the very definition of a northern beauty—with skin as pale as snow, the cold had done nothing but lend splashes of pink to her cheeks and nose, somehow adding to her allure. Unlike when she was a girl, Sansa no longer celebrated her good looks, instead, going to great lengths to play down her features, as well as hide her figure under clothes and cloaks that looked more like imprisonments than dresses. Nevertheless, she attracted men all the same.
"You'll see," he quietly said as the redhead made her way over to them, holding her stiff skirts aloft as her cloak lightly dragged on the foot-flattened banks of snow behind her.
At first, she looked upset, though her face seemed to soften the closer she came to them, almost in relief. After another moment, a smile even tugged at her reluctant lips as she picked up pace to bridge the distance.
"See?" he probed her, whispering through his grin.
"Shut up," she sneered. "She's happy to see me."
"No, little lady. She sees you every day."
"Shut up, I said," she commanded again as Sansa was well within earshot, now. Gliding across the white banks like a raven, she'd been dressed all in black as if in mourning. Appropriate, she thought to herself.
"Lady Stark," Arya greeted her sister with a bit of sarcasm weaving through her tone.
"Arya," Sansa replied, a suspicious eyebrow cocked. "Sandor," she turned to greet the giant man, without so much as a lick of fear, scorn, or disgust. Did she actually like him? Arya couldn't help but wonder.
"Little bird," Sandor greeted her with something of a nickname, his voice smoothed just as the hard lines of his face had, simply upon seeing her.
"What are you two doing out here in the snow?" Sansa asked, rubbing together leather-gloved hands for friction.
"I needed fresh air."
"How come?"
"I've been helping someone... look for something," she explained.
Sansa lightly nodded though didn't press the explanation any further. Though she'd been looking squarely at Sandor as she spoke, she inquired, "I was hoping to speak with you alone, Arya."
"I was just leaving," Sandor said, offering the Lady a slight bow before he slipped away. Strangely, her sister's gaze hung on the man for a moment before opening the door to the keep, gesturing Arya inside.
As they walked toward Sansa's quarters, Arya couldn't help but inquire upon noticing the unspoken bond between them, "He once told me he saved you from men who would beat and rape you."
"Did he?"
"At the time, I thought him a liar."
"He wasn't lying," she confirmed as she visibly backslid into painful memories of a childhood spent at King's Landing. Sansa kept her secrets closely guarded, only vaguely hinting at her past trauma and abuse, though by this point, Arya knew all of it had been very real.
"I know that now," she replied, certain that their relationship had meant more to the pair of them than they'd freely admit. "He's a good man, more-so than he lets on."
"He is," Sansa simply agreed, not indulging much in Arya's curiosity about her relationship with the giant, husky Hound.
"Part of me is surprised you'd agree."
"And why is that?" her sister asked, her tone flat and unenthused.
"Because he looks like a monster."
"No, he doesn't," Sansa snapped, stopping in her tracks. Her outstretched arms found Arya's shoulders, gripping them hard as she continued, "Monsters look like Joffrey Baratheon. Monsters look like Ramsay Bolton. One of the many things I learned at King's Landing was that looks are both deceiving and irrelevant."
With a slight shove, Sansa let her little sister free before continuing on, her heavy boots now colliding with the stone tiles, her irritation echoing against the walls.
"Joffrey was not a Baratheon, he was a Lannister," Arya hissed, feeling oddly protective of Gendry and his kin as she caught up to her sister. "Speaking of Lannisters, you must deem looks irrelevant if you're hanging around the Imp so much."
Sansa furrowed her brow, "Excuse me?"
"A Lannister, Sansa?"
"He's not like Cersei. Lord Tyrion has always been kind to me. And to Jon."
"Speaking of Jon..." Arya's voice trailed off as they'd finally reached their destination.
"Yes," Sansa said, slipping her hand into her pocket in search of her room key. "We will speak of Jon. Inside."
After unlocking the door, she stepped aside to let Arya in before pulling the door closed and locking it behind them. Still feeling a bit uneasy upon being in her parents' old room, Arya wondered how Sansa ever got used to sleeping in their parents' bed. Perhaps it's because she's something of a ghost, too, she thought, taking note of how much Sansa favored their mother, Catelyn.
Arya was the first to break the silence as her sister shook the snow from her hair and cloak, "How did you find out? Did Jon tell you, or did Bran?"
"When Lord Tyrion and I returned to the study, it was completely empty. I sought out Bran to see what had happened, and he encouraged me to find Jon."
"In the crypts, I presume."
"Yes," she confirmed, stomping the pesky snow from her boots.
Arya sighed as she watched her sister fidget, "I hope you're taking the news better than he is."
"Well, I certainly wasn't happy to find Daenerys down there with him."
"Why do you say it like that?"
"They're too familiar," Sansa shook her head in disapproval.
"They're in love," Arya quietly said, already regretting her choice of words the moment they left her lips.
"Exactly. Not only is falling in love a dangerous move, there's simply no time for it," she flatly stated, ever the politician. "Besides, she's his aunt. It's not as though it can go any further."
"How can you be so sure about that?"
"His aunt, Arya," Sansa said again, as if repetition would drive her point home. To Arya, however, it had not.
"Perhaps it's already too late for them," Arya considered. She admired Daenerys, and the news that Jon had actually been Rhaegar's son did nothing to dissuade her opinion that they'd be a good match. "They would've had no reason at all to believe they were related before now. They look nothing alike, they're as different as night and day. Daenerys reeks of Essos, and Jon, of the North. I don't see the problem."
"How can you not?" she pressed.
"Because Jon would make a great King," Arya stated, folding her arms.
Sansa's eyes fell shut as she walked over to her wardrobe. She began tidying items that didn't need tidying, as an obvious means to distract herself.
"You don't think so."
"It's not that I don't think so, It's just that," she paused as if searching for the right word. "Jon can be... naive."
"Naive or not, he convinced the Dragon Queen to fight for the North, and now there are thousands of soldiers in and around the castle, all here to protect our home. And a mountain of dragonglass being forged into weapons. And for what, Sansa? What do you think Queen Daenerys gets out of this deal, exactly?"
"I don't know what he's promised her, as he hasn't said. The North, I presume."
Arya laughed, though it came off more like a giggle, "What is the North to Daenerys? She'll lose more men than she'll gain in this fight, and she's already lost a dragon to the cause. Yet she's still here. She could've taken us easily by force, and yet she didn't. Is it so hard to believe she's a just ruler, as her many followers claim? Have you even spoken to any of them?"
"They don't speak the common tongue."
"Some of them do, perhaps not well. How many languages do you know, again?"
Sansa only rolled her eyes.
"Or is it you're too busy with Lord Tyrion to greet our many guests?"
"Excuse you," Sansa sneered. "Lord Tyrion is Hand to our Queen. If I'm to have any influence as Lady of Winterfell..."
Arya couldn't help but burst into laughter at the absurdity of the insinuation, "You don't need Tyrion Lannister to do that. Jon always heeds your advice, and he didn't hesitate to leave you in charge when he left. Are you so quick to forget he's still half Stark? Winterfell is his home as much as it is mine or yours. He's still our brother, he's part of our pack, and he always will be. Whether or not he becomes King to Daenerys."
"King," she scoffed. "Quite ambitious, isn't it? I don't see Daenerys forming a marriage alliance with a man who's already bent the knee and pledged his sword to her."
"Are politics all you think about, my lady?"
"What else is there?"
"Love," Arya suggested, the word sounding foreign and unnatural on her tongue.
"Love," Sansa snorted mockingly, "For Daenerys, it would be an utter waste to marry for love, would it not? I'm sure there are Lords out there who won't be so quick to bend the knee to her, then she'll be wishing she left that option open as a means to negotiate."
"A woman with two dragons doesn't need a man to negotiate. Imagine the statement it would make if the Queen married of her own volition. A woman forging her own path rather than being just another political pawn in someone else's game."
"You're sure pushing this love issue a little hard, Arya," her sister teased. "You looking to forge a similar path? Say, with a certain bastard blacksmith?"
Arya's face flushed. "Don't call him that," she snapped, wishing she hadn't divulged the nature of her relationship with Gendry to her sister.
"Why not?"
"His name is Gendry. And no, you know I'm not interested in becoming someone's wife."
"Why not? You love him, don't you?"
"Is that any of your business?" Arya asked, folding her arms. "Besides, I'm sure there's no political gain in a Stark girl marrying a bastard, at any rate," she added, in an attempt to mock Sansa's seemingly delusional priorities in the face of an even more deranged reality.
"A bastard, perhaps not. But a Baratheon..." her voice lingered as her lips parted to reveal a smug smile, slicing right through Arya's hardened composure.
"He's not a Baratheon."
"He could be, were he legitimized," she nonchalantly added.
"Whether or not he is doesn't matter to me. I don't want to be a wife, or a lady of some stupid castle."
Ignoring her last comment, Sansa paced around the room as if piecing something together, leaving a trail of wet bootprints behind in her wake. After a moment she continued, "That would be a wise move for the Queen, actually. To legitimize and wed Robert Baratheon's bastard son."
"Sansa..." Arya growled, unable to help clutching Needle's hilt at her right side, as if in warning. Her mind painted an image of Gendry standing beside Daenerys as she sat upon the iron throne. The mere thought made her positively ill.
"Even the most stubborn Lords would find it difficult to argue against a Targaryen and Baratheon pairing with a Lannister as Hand."
"And what of the North in this hypothetical, bullshit scenario you've just built?"
"If the honorable Jon Snow remains Warden of the North, she'd have nothing to worry about up here. Particularly not if he's her kin."
"You're still unsettled by it, aren't you?" Arya pressed, successfully dodging Sansa's attempts to rile her further.
"A little bit," she admitted. "Are you not?"
"It's always been true, Sansa. It's only that we just found out. It changes nothing."
"It could change everything."
"But it won't."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Why do you think Jon is so angry right now?"
"He's angry because father put all of our lives at risk on his behalf."
"Exactly. Because he cares more about the wellbeing of his siblings than his own. Jon's ambitions have never been selfish or fickle."
"You're right," Sansa sighed. "It's not Jon I distrust, it's... that I distrust Targaryens."
"Daenerys is not her father," Arya reminded her, "Just as Tyrion is not his sister."
Sansa simply harrumphed in defeat, her expression, yielding. Curious, Arya thought, not knowing Sansa to relent so easily during their many disagreements. Suddenly, Arya felt a great deal of curiosity regarding the Imp, who had seemed to not only charm both Sansa and Jon, but the Dragon Queen, herself, so much so that he had become her Hand. One thing the sisters should share in common with Daenerys is a hatred of Lannisters, and yet, Daenerys had invested a great deal of trust in Tyrion. Maybe there was more to this Imp than Arya had first thought.
"You might do well to remind Jon of your allegiance to him, I'm sure he's feeling rather lost and alone," Sansa softly said.
Arya nearly stumbled upon hearing the strange suggestion, putting her hand to her chest almost in disbelief, "Did you just say that, or did I?"
The redheaded girl chuckled, "I did."
"You might do the same, Sansa."
"Oh, I already have," she confirmed, a smile drawing itself across her face.
"Good," Arya said, offering her own grin in response.
After a few wordless moments passed between them, Arya sighed, "I should be getting back to Sam. I was only meant to take a short break."
"Sam? You mean Samwell Tarly?"
"I've been trying to help him, and by extension, Bran."
"Help with what, exactly?" Sansa asked, looking thoroughly intrigued.
"Helping to sift through every detail of the books they brought, searching for clues or answers before it's too late."
Sansa nodded, looking rather solemn as she remembered what had been marching for them all.
"If you or the Imp bore of your politics, we wouldn't mind the additional help. If you feel so inclined."
"Lord Tyrion, too?" she asked, eyebrows raised high in disbelief.
"Why not? I hear he's clever."
"But you've such a distaste for him..."
"Eh," Arya shrugged. "It's nothing personal, really. I just have a general distaste for Lannisters."
"Can't say I blame you," Sansa smirked devilishly.
Arya simply nodded before gracefully turning on her heels and heading toward the door. As she unlocked it, she heard Sansa call after her.
"Good luck, Arya."
"Thank you, Lady Stark," she said, flashing one last grin at her sister before departing.