A shiver trailed down Arya's spine as she surveyed the still darkness of the Godswood. Not from cold. She was used to cold, used to enduring all sorts of discomforts. No, it was unease. The wood was quiet, too quiet. No scuffling of small animals through the underbrush. Even the men around her seemed to breathe more quietly than they should. The unending stillness when she knew the battle for their very existence raged so near was unsettling. Even her well honed nerves were not equipped for waiting for the end.

She pushed off the thoughts of Gendry and Jon and Sansa that clamored for her attention, a natural response to boredom, but not one she could embrace. No, to be prepare, she needed to embody the peaceful apathy of No One. She could not afford distractions like the thoughts of Jon and Sansa and the stolen moments she'd witnessed. She could not afford to think of the future and what that future might look like if both she and Gendry lived through this… would she still be milady? No, in this unnaturally long night, she could only entertain one thought.

Not today.

She glanced back at Bran, eyes still white and rolled back in his head. She couldn't begin to understand what her brother had become, but she thought she could relate to how he got there. Whereas in the House of Black and White the faceless men had tried to carve out Arya Stark to make room for No One, she thought it seemed as though someone had crammed a great many people into her brother. It wasn't so much that he was gone as that he was pushed so far down that she couldn't find him, that he couldn't find himself. That, at least, she could relate fully. She knew what it was to struggle to find herself. Sometimes she still lost herself to No One.

As much as she didn't want to be, she was still No One.

But she was also Arya Stark.

And she hoped one day to be able to reconcile the two.

For now, she'd settle for surviving the onslaught to come.

A sharp intake of breath pulled her attention back to Bran. She swiftly went to his side and knelt beside his chair, resting her hand on his arm, protected from the cold beneath thick furs.

"What news?"

"Drogon has be injured in the process, but Sansa endures." Bran said, flatly.

Arya let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. "She's safe? What happened?"

Bran turned his head toward her, but his gaze didn't focus on her, almost as though he was looking at something else, somewhere else.

"She stuck him with the pointy end."

Arya felt a swell of heat in her chest that she realized after a moment was pride. She didn't know what Sansa had faced, but she knew she'd faced it well. Unbidden, the memory of Sansa screeching about how much she loved that prat Joffery bubbled up in Arya's mind and she couldn't help but smile at how long ago and ridiculous that memory seemed. They'd once been those girls, but she couldn't even remember what it felt like to be that girl. She wondered if it was the same for Sansa, or if, it was yet another after effect of her time with the faceless men.

"Good girl." She touched the space on her belt that felt so empty without Needle.

"The White Walkers gather." Bran said, turning away from her, staring blankly into the night.

Arya rose to her feet and squinted into the darkness. She could just barely make out movement among the trees. She shivered despite herself and tightened her grip on the spear Gendry had crafted for her. If this was how it would end, well, she would take every last one of them with her to meet her god.

A hand grabbed her arm and she looked down to find Bran's grasp tight on her forearm.

She frowned at him, confused.

"I need you by my side." Bran said, his gaze truly meeting hers for the first time since childhood. In those dark eyes, she could almost see her brother. And her chest ached for the children they'd once been and could never be again.

"Yes," She said. "To fight."

He shook his head, "A different battle."

He gently pulled her back and she allowed him to draw her closer, they were practically nose to nose when he placed his hand on her cold cheek.

And everything went black.

Sun warmed Arya's face and the sound of children laughing warmed her heart. Her eyes stung as she blinked into the brightness. She found herself atop the wall of Winterfell, looking down into the courtyard.

But it wasn't the Winterfell she'd left hours ago, marred by the Ironborn and the Boltons.

No, this was the Winterfell of summer.

Below in the courtyard, she saw Jon sparing with… gods… with Rob. She'd know that head of curls anywhere, even if she never saw them again for her entire life, which, she realized with a sinking sorrow, she never would. The eldest Stark laughed and shown like a star, bright and brilliant and destined to be snuffed out too soon.

And watching the boys spare? Her father and mother, caught in whispered conversation and sharing tender looks. Arya wanted nothing more than to call to them, but her voice lodged in her throat.

Mimicking his elder brothers, Rickon waved a wood sword in wild disregard, his curls bouncing and dancing in the wind. That sweet summer child who never saw a winter.

"Arya!" A familiar voice shrieked, drawing her gaze back down to the courtyard where Sansa's beautifully tended hair had been freshly covered by straw.

She caught the flash of her own retreating form before the sound of Robb and Theon's laughter distracted her.

The shriek distracted Jon, allowing Robb to disarm him.

Jon's gaze instantly found Sansa in a way that told Arya that he had already been aware, perhaps was always aware, of where Sansa perched neatly on a bale of clean hay, utterly absorbed in conversation with Ser Waymar Royce, the youngest son of Lord Yohn Royce, on his way North to take the black. Arya remembered him. She remembered how Sansa had fawned over him like he was a knight straight out of her songs. Even then, Arya had thought he was a pompous windbag. The boy made it like he was so important, when everyone knew perfectly well that he was heading to the wall because it was his only shot at making a name for himself.

"Seems so long ago, doesn't it?"

Arya looked around and found Bran beside her. But not the Bran of this time who climbed a parapet behind the elder version. The elder version was also not the Bran of her time, crippled and smothered by a greater entity. This was the true Bran, the Brandon Stark he should have been and might have grown to be if the gods had been kinder to their family.

She stared at him for a long moment and his face split into a wide smile.

"Good to see you, sister." He said.

She threw her arms around him like she would never let him go.

She didn't know what this place was or why she was here, but in that moment it didn't matter. She had her brother back, truly back.

And for the first time in longer than she could remember, she felt genuine tears on her cheeks.

"Now, now." Bran chuckled, slowly prying her loose and holding her at arms length so he could get a good look at her. "There's much we have to discuss and very little time."

"I don't understand."

Bran smiled, but this time it was tinged with sorrow. "You will."

So, I wasn't planning to post today, but I've had several requests for an Arya update and I got to rearranging and outlining my remaining plans for this episode. I think I've solidified the remaining death(s, who am I kidding? This is Game of Thrones, after all.) and this episode should end up being about 35 chapters. We're in the endgame now.