Winterfell Finally

Arya

She'd forgotten how cold it was. Or at least her body had. The young man's face she wore had never known winters like these in Braavos. She shivered mightily at every gust of wind as they docked. It was near empty at the port, a few were still trying to flee, buying their way onto the cargo vessels as she had.

So strange was it to be back on Northern soil, her knees wobbled. She'd gotten her sea legs readily enough. She'd won valuable currency gambling with the men. She could read their tells so easily, it almost wasn't worth playing. When the losers grew too angry, her swift kicking of their asses forced the rest to be better losers. She did her part around the ship, completing odd jobs here and there. She didn't know what she was doing at first, but she watched the other men work and mimicked their movements. They grew to respect her, or at least accept her. She couldn't tell them anything about who she was of course, but there were times when she wanted to. It had been so long since she'd said her own name aloud. The urge churned in her gut.

She had liked her shipmates well enough, it reminded her sometimes of her journey with the Night's Watch recruits. The memories surprisingly weren't that painful anymore. She hadn't known how disorienting it would be to be back. It didn't feel fully familiar. But it was cold and her Northern pride was shaken. But, she reasoned, she'd been gone so long she could be forgiven for her teeth chattering. She bought a warm coat off a man leaving Winterfell in a hurry for a ridiculous price.

She trudged through crisp snow flurries which burned her face, and her boots slogged through crunchy slush puddles.

It was full of people, and she knew no one. Not one man stood idly, everyone had a purpose, a job, a duty. Some were sorting clothing, others preparing game and grain for storage, yet more were polishing weapons and armor. Though she didn't recognize these people, she knew the look of the North on them. She could finally breathe.

Amongst the people going about their tasks, there was one group milling around the courtyard- training.

Of course she was drawn to the sparring.

It was amazing, Wildlings and Crows and knights and unskilled laborers combined. The training was structured, they were being assessed. Who was good enough to skip basic training? Who would catch the eyes of the higher ranking crows?

She hadn't seen her brother yet, not that she expected to. That would be too easy, and luck had never been on her side.

A Wildling, of all people, addressed the crowd.

"Listen up, Fuckers! You're at the End of the Fucking World. This is it. What you learn here will keep you alive. Pay attention, train hard, and trust your brothers. You might just survive these dead fuckers. And oh you'll have a story to tell." The grizzly, red bearded man shouts out to them, laughing at his own joke. So he was in charge of the soldiers. She should impress him then, but not too much.

This was the tricky part. She couldn't show them how good she was. Too good and she'd garner unwanted attention. Not good enough and she'd never make it before the Lord Commander. This would be difficult.

Most of the men she went up against couldn't do much. They could hold their swords, that was about it. It took more energy than she thought to hold back, to not beat them too badly and shatter their pride. They were risking their lives too after all, she would need them loyal at her back when the time came.

As she makes her way through the other recruits, someone taps her on the shoulder to step to the side. She'd impressed them enough.

"I'll fight ya, lad."

It was the red-bearded Wildling man. He had crazy eyes and a pleased grin on his face.

He was fun to fight. His blows were brutal but easy to predict. He did wield his sword unlike anything she'd seen in Westeros or Braavos. He even held the pommel differently. She had to get out of the way to avoid broken bones, such was his strength. He learned from her blows and managed to defend himself adequately, never making the same mistake twice. She was enjoying herself so much, she barely remembered to keep herself in-check. She let herself get struck by a few glancing blows to protect the ruse. Even so, she disarmed him with minimal effort by trapping his own arm behind his back at an awkward angle. He was forced into an uncomfortable lunge. He loudly yielded. She made a point of helping him up and clapping him on the back in camaraderie. He looked pleased at her show of respect.

A few nodded their approval, a few gave appreciative whistles, and a few still looked confused. Eventually they went back about their business. But she'd made others take notice. Damn, she should have made it look like more of a struggle.

She felt a pair of eyes watching, like a physical touch. She followed the source of the gaze.

Jon.

Here.

Everything else faded out, the sound of her heart pounding like a drum keeping time. The others back up farther to make room.

"Impressive." He comments. His voice was deeper somehow.

She can't manage the words to answer. He looked different than she had remembered. He had a full beard. And his curly dark hair held back by a leather cord had a few streaks of grey in it. He wasn't much older than her, but hard living could do much. He held himself like a soldier, a warrior. The others regarded him as their leader, as royalty. She was so proud of all he'd become, all he'd made of himself without a name, she felt her eyes water. She wished so badly she could tell him so. His next question dried the beginnings of her tears.

"I'll fight you." He offered. She could hear the order in his voice well enough.

Without thinking, her tongue answered for her.

"No." She said.

The others whispered confusedly to each other. Her brother, the Lord Commander, raised an eyebrow, intrigued. He hadn't been refused an order in some time.

"And why not?" He asks, a hint of amusement in his tone.

Low enough so only those closest could hear, she answers honestly.

"I wouldn't want to dishonor you in front of your men, My Lord."

Stupid stupid. Why had she said that? Why hadn't she said she was tired? That she'd over strained herself?

He laughs. The sound reminds her of their father. Everyone gathered around relaxes at the Lord Commander's mirth. At least she hadn't offended him.

"I've been watching today. You may well best me. It's true. But there is no shame in losing to someone who is better. I might learn something." He takes his stance, a little smirk fighting its way out.

Against her command, her body matches his challenge, she cannot stand still when attacked. Her training will not allow it. At her acceptance of his challenge, he grows more serious, more focused. She almost stumbles in remembering their play battles as children.

She lets him take the offensive, blocking his every blow. He doesn't give anything away, but still she can read him. He is much much better than she remembered. He was a trained soldier now. She wondered idly how many men he had killed. Not as many as she had, she'd wager. If the dead counted at all.

She couldn't let her mind wander for long. He adapted, he came from different angles, targeted different weak points. It was her turn to be impressed. They were both sweating from the strain. An odd sensation in the blistering cold.

He struck out again and she blocked again. They held their position, eye to eye. Gods, his eyes were just like father's.

"Come on." He says. And it takes her a moment to understand his meaning.

He wants the boy he sees before him to strike at him and mean it.

She obliges.

He blocks the first few, but she is so fast and unrelenting she manages to knock him off balance. He regains his footing quickly, his own training and experience shining through. She loses track of the time as they trade blows. She notices he is getting fatigued, and times a well-aimed blow to his ankle, he wasn't expecting that. He falls, but not too hard, upper arms holding him ready to spring back up. Quick as lightning she has her blade to his throat. He concedes, and she helps him up.

It had felt special to beat her revered older brother in battle. She'd never won when they were little.

"How in the Seven Hells did you learn to fight like that?" He asks good naturedly.

She had already decided, she couldn't lie to him. She couldn't tell the truth either, but she wouldn't lie.

"Braavos." She says simply. His eyebrow raises once more.

"What the hell are you doing all the way up here then?"

"I came to fight these dead fuckers." To be close to you. She answers silently. It was true, just not all of it.

"Well, you are most welcome. We will find a place for a worthy warrior." He locks forearms with her in friendship and takes his leave. He is immediately beset upon by a fat man who hurries him along. Of course the Lord Commander would be busy.

She doesn't move, the warmth from his hand spreads so completely she feels certain she won't need the coat.

"Come on, Lad. I'll buy you a drink." Tormund offers good-naturedly, breaking her out of her stupor. She knew better than to refuse. Drinks made men talk quicker than anything and she could learn much from the Wildling. She had time to kill and welcomed a distraction from her thoughts and feelings.

The atmosphere in the hall was hard to describe. The men knew each other and clearly felt comfortable with each other. They were afraid of something, but used to it at the same time. It led to lively libation around her.

Tormund began talking before the ale got past his lips. He spoke of Wildling fighting alongside Crow. He talked of a battle between them and how a young Lord Commander had negotiated for peace, bridging the divide. He talked of the Lord Commander's tragic love story with a fiery Wildling girl. He spoke of rescuing Lord Snow's sister only to be disappointed.

She'd heard as much, she was curious to meet the unlucky imposter.

He spoke of betrayal and dead things.

Gods, things had been mad here as well. She doubted she could be of much help, but she would die to protect Jon. She drank more to calm her racing mind.

He talked more, in fact, he wouldn't shut up. One thing was for sure, besides Tormund's big mouth, he respected Jon, he was loyal. The itch to be in her brother's presence burned. But she'd seen him. She'd spoken with him. She'd sparred with him. And she would be by his side when the final battle came.

She could wait. She could keep her head down. She'd waited years already. She resigned herself to weeks more.

A large, familiar blacksmith saunters through the doors, sits in a dark corner, and her heart beats so wildly she thinks her ribcage might burst open in her chest. She scarcely breathes as she watches him, making sure her eyes were not playing tricks.

No, it was him. Dark black hair, near-giant frame, whiskered jaw. He was drinking intently with bright blue eyes downcast. It was him.

She hadn't been expecting him, she hadn't been ready. She had believed him dead.

She had come to see her brother, she hadn't been prepared to face him.

How was he still alive? And here?

The urge to vomit came on so strong that she had to run to the door, heaving up bile, water, and hops outside, narrowly avoiding embarrassing herself in front of the men. Tormund just thinks her drunk, laughing at her misfortune.

What a fucking mess. Literally.