"Who's next?" asked Jon, and Arya decided it was her time.
She stared at the box burning merrily on the pyre and said, "You didn't get half of what you deserved for causing Father's death—"
"What?" Jon demanded.
"Later," Sansa whispered. "For now, just…" She gestured to the coffin. "I want him gone. Forever."
"—and Sansa's—" Here, she paused, gaze flying to her sister, whose face could have been carved from marble. "-pain. So I'm glad you're dead. I wish it had hurt more. I wish you could feel the fire as it eats you. I hope you never find any rest. May you be damned forever."
She ignored the surprised faces ranged around her, knowing she'd revealed a bit more of her bloodthirst than she'd intended, but once able to give throat to her thoughts, she'd not held back.
Only Sansa was left. She trembled under the Hound's hands and sucked in a deep breath before speaking.
"You said you loved our mother— that you loved me— and yet you did nothing but cause us torment. Facing the gods with what you've done is the least of your worries. Now you have to face our mother and her wrath. I hope her scorn causes you as much sorrow as you brought to us."
And then she pulled free from the Hound's tender grasp and walked away, turning her back on the last of Petyr Baelish. The rest of them followed her, silent and grim. The dragon queen's face was oddly sympathetic, Arya thought, and marveled at her presence in Winterfell.
As Jon approached the gate into the courtyard, an unearthly howl came from within Winterfell's walls.
"Ghost!" Jon exclaimed, his face lighting with pleasure, and he began to jog toward the gate. Arya galloped after him and watched with a broad grin as the direwolf pounced on his master, lavishing his face with kisses as Jon tried to scratch or pat whatever part of Ghost he could reach.
Even the smallfolk stopped to watch with fond expressions, proud of their king. As far as they were concerned, having a direwolf as a companion was just proof that the old gods had not deserted the North and had blessed its rulers with a symbol of their approval.
The excited calls of "Jon is back! The king is here!" ceased, however, when the dragon queen walked in. She was a short little thing, barely taller than Arya, but the way she held herself was every inch a queen. Even Sansa could not match her regality.
But that regal mien shifted as she watched Jon frolic in the dirt with Ghost.
"Oh," she said in surprise. Perhaps she had not heard of their direwolves.
Jon grinned up at her from the ground.
"Sorry," he said, not seeming sorry at all. "Ghost, off, off." He sat up, dodging the sloppy kisses the creature insisted to lavish upon him. "This is my friend, Ghost."
The queen regarded Ghost soberly and then gave the direwolf a gracious nod. "I am honored to meet you, Ghost."
Ghost stared at her before sitting back on his haunches and giving her a wide doggy grin. Jon heaved himself up from the ground and started to make his way inside.
"It's late, I'm famished. Sansa, what's our best room?"
"Yours," she replied.
"Ah, that's perfect. Your Grace, you'll stay in my room, then." He snatched his pack from the ground where he'd discarded it to leap at Ghost. "Can the laundresses wash these up? We'll need them for tomorrow."
Sansa handed the pack off to a servant hovering nearby; they two exchanged an arcane series of facial tics, wordlessly communicating in a womanly way that Arya felt quite left out of.
"I'd like to just eat in the solar tonight, not the great hall. Too much to talk about," Jon continued as they all trailed him into the keep. "You'll all join us, yes?" He swept a glance over their little assembly, including the Hound and Brienne, who both agreed.
Sansa caught the eye of another servant. More tics were exchanged, and the servant left, presumably to instruct the kitchens as to their lord's desire.
"Has any new mead been brewed? I've been missing it, though the food they're giving us in Dragonstone is like nothing I've had before."
He flashed a smile over his shoulder at the queen, who just watched him with a faint expression of amusement on her lovely face.
"What are you grinning at, then?" he asked her. Arya thought must have become quite well-acquainted in their short time since meeting, if he could interpret that bare hint of humor on her features as a grin.
"If I'm to sleep in your room, my lord, does that mean we shall cement our alliance in a more… permanent way?"
He stopped walking, so abruptly that Arya slammed into his back, bumping her nose on his hard-armored shoulder. Then he blushed. It was agonizing to watch.
"I meant— I didn't mean— I'll be in my old bedroom. From before," Jon said. "You'll be in the lord's chamber. By yourself. Without me."
"Ah," was all she said, but there was something in her tone that made Arya mentally commit herself to keeping a close eye— even closer than she'd already intended— on the queen while she was at Winterfell.
"Still as smooth with the ladies as ever," she whispered in her brother's ear as they climbed the stairs to the solar.
"Shut it, you," he muttered. "I'm not trying to be smooth with her."
"Good, because you're failing miserably."
"Was I glad to have you back?" he asked rhetorically as they entered the solar. "What a fool I am. Ah, it's lovely to be home. Your Grace, please sit."
He pulled out a chair for the dragon queen, waiting as she removed her cloak and taking it, handing it and his own to yet another servant. Sansa did a complicated maneuver with her eyebrows that doubtlessly meant the cloaks would be cleaned and returned in the morning.
Arya installed herself in a chair right by Jon. The Hound took the one closest to Sansa, of course, and Brienne sat in the last vacant one, between the Hound and the queen. Soon the big round table was groaning beneath the weight of the platters covering it.
Jon remembered his manners, she saw, and filled a plate for the queen before getting his own. She watched with amusement as the Hound, noticing Jon's actions, began to do the same, though with the assumption that Sansa would eat as much as he himself would, because the plate he handed her was mounded with enough food to keep her for half a week.
Arya almost laughed, but when she saw how happy it made Sansa, she bit her lip and concentrated on cutting her meat.
After a few moment of silence, but for the clink of silverware on pottery and the occasional slurp from a goblet, Jon spoke.
"So, how did Lord Baelish's death come about?"
"He walked into the hall while I was holding court, handed me a scroll, and walked back out. He had written out a confession of all manner of things," Sansa said carefully, her gaze flicking to the dragon queen before returning to Jon. "Brienne ran right out to bring him back, but by the time she found him, he'd taken poison and died."
"I see."
"Sweetrobin will need a new Lord Protector, now," she added.
"I'd do it, but I have to go to King's Landing and kill Cersei," Arya said. She didn't mean it, of course, but it sounded good.
He turned to her. "And now I'd like an explanation of where you've been. You look…"
"Dangerous?" Arya prompted. "Mysterious? Lethal? "
"Mean. You look hard and mean." Concern furled his brow.
Arya reeled at that, dismayed, then dismayed more when she realized she was disappointed not because she was sorry she looked that way, but because she thought she'd done better at disguising it.
Must work on my straight face, she noted mentally. Must be able to fool others into thinking I'm pleasant and harmless.
"I am hard and mean," she agreed. "Have had to be."
Jon was still frowning at her. "Where were you all this time?"
"Braavos."
"Doing what?"
"Learning to fight. And other things."
"What other things?"
Arya just grinned at him. "Handy things. Helpful things."
"You're not going to tell me, are you?"
"No."
He sighed, then turned to Sansa. "And you."
She looked alarmed. "What about me?"
"I've been gone a month, and you've—" He waved a hand in the Hound's direction. "I've remembered who you are now, ser."
"Not a ser," the Hound grumbled around a mouthful of mutton. "Just call me Clegane."
"The Lannisters' faithful dog. So why are you here? And why are you so… friendly… with my sister?"
The Hound set down his fork and wiped his mouth with his napkin. "Back in King's Landing, I did what I could to protect Sa— Lady Sansa from Joffrey. Not enough, but as much as possible. Offered to bring her home, too, when I decided to leave, but she refused. Met up with the wolf-bitch—"
"Don't call her that—"
"-Hush, little bird— and spent, what, a year traveling together?" He looked over at Arya. She snorted.
"Seemed like a decade," she said with feeling. "And don't say it that way, as if we were having a grand tour of Westeros. That year was utter shit. You were utter shit. How many times did I try to kill you?"
"And then the one time I wanted you to, you wouldn't do it, you contrary bitch." His eyes glinted at her over the rim of his goblet as he drank.
"I can kill you now, though," she shot back at him.
"You can try."
"Enough," Jon interrupted mildly. "Continue with your tale."
"So this big bitch—" he jerked a thumb at Brienne and ignored her hostile glare "-caught me after I'd been wounded earlier. We fought. She threw me off a fucking cliff. The wolf-bi—" the Hound stopped, looked at Sansa's burgeoning frown, and corrected himself. "—she left me to die. Didn't, though. Eventually, I met up with the Brotherhood without Banners. They invited me to tag along with them. Had nothing else to do, so I agreed. We came North, headed for Eastwatch-by-the-sea. I stopped by Winterfell to see if Sansa were here. She was. I stayed."
Done with his tale, he resumed eating.
"I see." Jon frowned down at his plate, took another bite.
"And you?" prompted Sansa. "We received your raven that you'd arrived safely, thank you. How is Ser Davos? Since Her Grace is present—" she paused to smile graciously at the dragon queen "—does that mean you have struck up an alliance?"
Jon and the queen exchanged a glance.
"I require more proof than just Lord Stark's word," the queen said. "If I am to commit my men, and set aside my determination to rule all seven of the Seven Kingdoms to settle for only six, I must see with my own eyes this undead threat we face."
"We're headed for Hardhome," Jon added. "To show her the White Walkers and the wights they create from the dead. Have you heard from Tormund?"
Brienne huffed. Her manners were too good to permit her to hunch over her plate, but she bent her head to stare down at it, and focused with pinpoint precision on excising a sliver of gristle from her meat, cheeks aflame.
Sansa gave a delicate cough. "He sent a raven, but it was a near-illegible note expressing his… passionate admiration of Lady Brienne and bore no news of their travels."
"Love is in the air," murmured the queen, toying with her fork.
"You don't know the half of it," said the Hound, glancing Arya's way. She had a bad feeling about what would come out of his mouth next. "Arya's old mate from before she and I wandered the riverlands has made his way here after learning how to forge Valyrian steel. Gave her that new dagger as a wedding present, he did."
Jon's mouth dropped open. But before he could speak, indignation had Arya slamming her fork down.
"It's not a wedding present!" she exclaimed. "It's just a… present. We're friends. He made it for me as a friend."
The Hound chuckled evilly into his goblet.
"Your Grace," Sansa said with a touch of desperation, clearly trying to keep her sister and her… whatever the Hound was… from worsening the situation. "I understand you have taken Tyrion Lannister as your hand. How is he?"
"He fares well, and sends his regards. He hopes to have the chance to speak with you in person about the future of your marriage, but if that chance does not come, he requests that you send him a raven with your wishes."
Sansa flicked a glance at Clegane.
"Yes," she said faintly, "I will send him a raven about it soon. Thank you, Your Grace."
Brienne finished eating first, and excused herself to make sure Podrick was cleaning her sword and armor correctly. Sansa and the Hound left soon thereafter, the queen going along to be shown to her— Jon's— room.
"I'll have a shift brought to your room, to sleep in, Your Grace," she told the dragon queen. "Leave those clothes outside your door, I'll have them laundered and returned to you by the morning."
"Thank you," the queen replied with a nod, her voice faint as they ascended the spiraling stairs.
That left Arya and Jon. They finished their meals in companionable silence. When she was done, Arya tossed her napkin onto her plate and leaned back with a sigh of contentment.
"You should know something. We've just learned it ourselves. It's not something to be said in front of our guests, and I don't know when Sansa will have a chance to talk to you, so I'll say it now: Brienne has had word from a friend in King's Landing. Cersei is sending shiploads of soldiers to land in White Harbor and start her invasion of the North from there."
Jon went very still. "This friend. He can be trusted?"
"Brienne insists so."
He was thinking so hard she could practically see steam come from his ears. "Has Lord Manderly been made aware?"
"Sansa sent a raven right away."
"Oldcastle, House Cerwin and Ramsgate are closest."
"They've all be alerted as well, and are sending men to White Harbor."
"And send men from Torrhen's Square and Barrowton to take Moat Cailin. It's too perfect a base from which the Lannister forces can operate in the North, if we don't manage to route them in White Harbor. I'd send Howland Reed but he's already going south to take the Twins."
"You want me to tell them? They won't listen to me, Jon. They might not even listen to Sansa."
He raked his hands through his hair, looking around the room until he glimpsed a quill and ink pot on the desk in the corner. Sitting at the desk, he rummaged for some parchment, and began writing. When he was done, he signed at the bottom and poured sand over it all to drink the ink, then handed it to Arya.
"How's that, do you think?"
It contained clear, concise, and unequivocal instructions for what each lord in the North was to be doing at the precise point in time. Arya looked up from it to where Jon was standing, waiting for her verdict. She'd known Jon was bright, but this level of organization and political maneuvering hinted at genius. She handed the parchment back to him.
"It's good," she said. "It's terrific. I'll give it to Sansa in the morning." He flopped back into his chair, looking relieved, but not for long, because Arya continued, "I want to go with you. To Hardhome."
"No. Tell me about this 'old mate' who forged you something of Valyrian steel."
"No. It's been so long since we've seen one another; stay longer than just one day."
"Can't. I told them we'd be back in a week. If I don't get her to Dragonstone in time, they might expect the worst. I don't want Ser Davos and our men to have to bear the brunt of such a misunderstanding."
"It's hard to believe she's set this whole thing in motion. She looks so…"
"So…?"
"So soft. Pale and airy. Like a meringue."
Jon barked out a laugh. "I've no doubt she cultivates that impression on purpose, but don't let it fool you. I promise you, Arya, she's pure steel. Driven. Dangerous, because she is convinced the gods intend her to be queen. She's not power-hungry like Cersei. Remember what Father always told us about zealots? That the sacred can be so much more deadly than the profane, because those who act on behalf of gods think they'll get their reward whether they die or not.
"Cersei has a vested interest in keeping herself alive. If she knows she's losing, she'll try to escape and rally another day. Daenerys Targaryen, though…"
He paused and thrust a hand through his windswept curls again.
"She's in it for the legacy. For the principle, for the rightness she feels it has. And she'll die trying to get it. If she knows she's losing, she'll stand there and meet her death straight on. And nothing less than death will stop her."
Jon seemed troubled by the thought. It made Arya laugh.
"What's funny about that?" he demanded.
"You say it with a frown, as if you're not the same exact way. As if Father weren't the same exact way."
He stared at her, startled, his eyes wide. "I wouldn't die in a grab for power. I don't want the power I've got. Didn't Sansa tell you? I didn't want any of this, I—"
"Yes, yes, she told me everything. Even about your dying, which we need to discuss at some point, too." Arya gave him a pointed look. "I just meant that you put yourself on the line because of the principle and the rightness you feel, too. So did Father. You're so like him, Jon."
The scene of Ned's execution flashed before her eyes, as it often did, and she turned her face away, eyes clenched shut against the tears.
"I miss him too," he said.
"I was there," she muttered. "I saw how Sansa screamed and struggled against the guards holding her. She's been through a lot, Jon. A lot more than we know, I think."
"And what have you been through?" He flicked a fingertip against the hilt of Needle. "You told Clegane you could kill him. Was that idle talk, or have you learned to use this?"
"I can use it." She pulled both blades free of her belt and laid them on the table, then found a scrap of whetstone in a pocket. Unsheathing Bodkin, she began to run the whetstone over its edge.
Jon gave it an admiring glance. "Where did you learn?"
"Father got me a teacher in King's Landing. I began there. Then I learned more in Braavos."
"Why Braavos?"
"Had a friend from there. He said if I needed help, to come to him. So I went. He taught me… a lot of things."
"Helpful and handy things?"
"Yes." She glanced over at him. He looked tired, with rings below his eyes. "You should go to bed. You've a long way to go, and a queen to convince. When you come back, we'll talk more then."
"Will we?" Jon stood, staring down at her. Those piercing eyes of his had always had the knack of making her spill her secrets.
She nodded. "We will. I'll tell you more. You'll tell me about how you died and then came back to life. We can spar. I'll kick your arse."
That sweet smile of his flashed. "You can hope so."
Arya leapt to her feet, jamming Needle and Bodkin back into place in her belt. "Oho, a challenge! You'll be laughing out the other side of your face, I promise."
He lunged at her and she sidestepped him, giggling, then dashed from the room with him on her heels. They raced up the stairs to the wing of private chambers, quieting so as to not wake any who might have fallen asleep already.
"I'm glad you're back with us," said Jon. "I've worried about you so much, these past few years."
Arya didn't trust herself to speak, so she just flung herself at him, hugging him around the waist. His arms came around her, and she wavered between the present and the past, recalling their farewell when he'd left for Castle Black, before everything had fallen to shit.
"I worried about you, too," she whispered before peeling herself off him and dashing into her room. She leaned back against the closed door and let fall the tears she'd been holding in. She knew Jon was just standing there, and wondered what he was thinking, until she heard his footsteps take him to the other end of the hall, to his childhood bedroom.
She undressed and fell into bed, her mind a-whirl from the day's events, moving in all directions at once, trying to puzzle out all the many things happening: Cersei, Sansa and the Hound, Brienne and her secret love. Gendry. And now Daenerys Bloody Targaryen, in their very home, and Jon, being so Jon-like, trying so hard to do the right thing.
She didn't trust the dragon queen. She did trust Jon, however.
That would have to be enough.
For now.