Arya squinted into the chilled darkness. The fire wasn't enough to keep the cold at bay. She looked around and realized she was in a nearly empty war room, but not Winterfell's war room. A tent, she thought. She looked around and saw Jon sitting at the table.

This was preparations for a battle in the field. But what battle?

"So you've met the enemy. Drawn up your battle plans." Sansa said, stepping into the dim light of the candles.

"Aye, for what they're worth." Jon said, looking tired and aged. Not the boy who'd left Winterfell and not the man who'd returned with Daenerys in the hopes of saving the North.

"You've known him for the space of a single conversation. You and your advisors. And you sit around making your plans on how to defeat a man you don't know." Jon studied Sansa, a sadness in his eyes that Arya had come to recognize as unwanted desire. "I lived with him." Sansa continued. "I know how his mind works. I know how he likes to hurt people." The fury in Sansa's voice was barely contained. "Does it ever once occur to you that I might have some insight."

Ramsay, Arya realized and her blood boiled. She'd never met the man, but he was responsible for the desecration of her ancestral home, the abuse of her sister, and the death of one of her brothers. Had he not been long dead by the time she'd learned of his despicable deeds, she would have added his name to her list. Instead, she had to find solace in the knowledge that Sansa had done what was necessary.

"You're right." Jon conceded.

"If you think he's going to fall into your trap he won't, he's the one who lays traps."

"He's over confident."

"He plays with people." Sansa corrected. "He's far better at it than you are. He's been doing it all his life."

"Aye, and what have I been doing all my life?" Jon stood, annoyed. "Playing with broomsticks? I've fought beyond the wall against worse than Ramsay Bolton. I've defended the wall from worse than Ramsay…"

"You don't know him." Sansa said, each word slow and deliberate, enough to send a chill down Arya's spine.

"Alright, tell me. What should we do? How do we get Rickon back?"

Sansa's expression faltered. "We'll never get him back."

The truth of Sansa's words was like a dagger to Arya's heart. Arya reached over and took Bran's hand.

"Some sacrifices must be made… for the greater good." Bran said. "You understand."

Before the house of black and white, Arya had hungered for vengeance and death and sacrifice meant very little. She'd had an insatiable need to kill those that had wronged her and her family. She'd carried that need back to Westeros with her.

"I do." Arya agreed, though she wished more than anything for the bliss of ignorance.

"Good." Bran nodded.

"I don't think I can do it…" She admitted. "I can't do what needs to be done."

"That's not you."

Jon leapt from Rhaegal's back, unnerved by the sound of cracking ice as his boots collided with the frozen surface of the Godswood pond. A White Walker struck down a Wilding nearby and charged toward Jon. Rhaegal snapped down on the man of ice, shook him until something cracked louder than the ice and flung the limp body aside.

Jon looked at the great figure of the dragon and gave the beast a grateful nod before plunging into the chaos. He had to get through to Bran, but that was only half the battle. He had to reach his brother and then, some how, get the crippled boy across a battlefield to the safety of the waiting dragon's back. It seemed like an impossible task. But so many of the tasks he'd faced and conquered to get to this point has seemed impossible. Gods, he'd even come back from the dead once. What could be more impossible than that.

With Longclaw in hand, he charged through the madness, blocking what he could, dodging what he couldn't, he didn't care about stopping anyone, only about getting through to his brother.

And, at last, he broke through. A scream of indescribable pain hit him like a wall, and for a moment he thought all was lost.

Then he saw Bran.

Beneath the weirwood tree.

Unharmed.

The crippled boy stared at him as though they were the only two beings in the world, not two brothers separated by the tumult of war.

Jon looked around, grounding himself in his surroundings.

Brienne, in her rightful place between the Starks and destruction, was on all fours, blood dripping from a wound Jon couldn't see, boring a hole into the snow. Jamie stood, frozen, his mouth open in a silent scream, blood dripping from the blade locked in his metal hand.

Podrick Payne diving to his knees beside the lady he served, howling in a sorrow too profound for words.

And the Night King, watching it all with something akin to amusement in his cold eyes.

Don't you dare be a hero, Sansa's words echoed in his mind.

He didn't want to be the hero. Didn't want to sacrifice it all for the sake of honor and duty, but time and time again, that was exactly what he did. If he was honest, it felt like the purpose he'd been born for. No peace or happiness has been long lasting. He'd never imagined growing old. Even when he'd taken up the black, he'd never imagined himself in that black when his own hair had turned the color of snow. He'd always thought his life was meant to be bloody and brief and spent in the service of others.

Then Sam told him everything he thought was fundamentally wrong.

That, had Robert's Rebellion gone the other way, he might even now be sitting upon the Iron Throne.

And he didn't want it.

All he wanted was a peaceful life. To lay down his weapons of war and grow old with the woman he cherished. All he wanted was a fate that fell somewhere between the bastard and the prince.

Then the Night King turned toward Jon, the weirwood tree and Bran between them. Once again, Jon's gaze met that of death incarnate. Surely this was it, the moment that the Lord of Light had seen fit to bring him back for, the early death he'd always expected. In service of his fellow man.

"Not today."

A hand caught his arm. He looked around, surprised by the touch. His eyes met their match.

"Arya."

Her lips pressed into a thin, sad smile.

"This fight is not yours to win, Jon." Arya said, she sniffed hard and he realized that she was crying.

"We have to get to Bran. Get him out." Jon said. "I'll carry him, you clear a path."

She shook her head. "You know nothing."

He frowned at her in confusion. The words were so familiar, but felt so wrong coming from her.

"Bran…" Jon started.

"We'll never get him back." Arya said.

Her words felt like a knife to his heart.

"We can get him out." Jon said, though he knew, as he had when Sansa had given him the same warning about Rickon that his words weren't true.

"No, Jon." Arya said. "We can't."

Jon looked back at the great tree and Bran beneath it.

"I don't understand," He said.

"I do." Arya said. "Trust me."

A spray of ice shards showered him suddenly and Jon looked back to see Tormund behind him. The wildling's face split in a wide grin.

"If it isn't the god of small peckers."

"We have to get to Rhaegal." Arya said to Tormund. "Can you get us through?"

Tormund glanced back at the fighting. "Aye, I can do that."

Jon looked back at his brother once more as Arya grabbed his arm and drew him away.

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