Me: is not very good at writing battle scenes

Also me: writes an entire chapter than is almost all battle

I'm sorry if this doesn't make sense in places, I'm literally the furthest person from the genius that is Miguel Sapochnik. I hope you enjoy it anyway!

As a girl, Arya had dreamed of dragons.

She had laughed at Sansa, with her Florians and Jonquils, and her kind princes and sweet maids. She had thought those songs stupid, and Sansa even more so for believing in them. Arya had preferred tales of dragons and their riders, of Vhagar and Meraxes and Balerion - real stories, as she would tell Sansa. Oh, it was true enough that Arya hated the histories Maester Luwin would teach them, but Old Nan's stories were different.

As a girl, Arya had believed the Targaryens gone, and their dragons before them. So when Daenerys Targaryen arrived with her dragons in tow, some part of Arya had felt half a girl again, only this time the stories were real.

At least, they had been, for a time.

She'd thought, once, that she and Sansa were almost too different to be sisters at all. She knows now that they are more similar than she ever cared to know as a girl; indeed, she had been just as foolish, believing in the stories of dragons just as Sansa had once believed that her life would be like a song.

She tugs again at the ropes holding her to the post, scowling when they still won't move. It had been deftly done, Arya can admit that; she can even admit some small amount of respect for the other woman, but she knows that, now more than ever, she has to get free and finish what she started. For Jon's sake, and for Gendry's, and for everyone they've dragged into this with them. More than anything, Arya does not want to see more destruction.

She twists experimentally, trying to find a weak spot in the rope. It takes a while - longer than Arya wanted - but eventually she finds it. It's tiny, only just loose enough for her to maneuver her wrist, but it's enough. She wriggles her hand, wincing as the rope burns her skin, but she soon frees her left hand. Arya allows herself a small smile before getting to work on the rest of the ropes, working as quietly as she is able to avoid drawing attention from the guards. It's too easy, really; Daenerys left just four men, and none of them so much as twitch as Arya works on her bonds.

She holds the ropes behind her back, not letting them fall away, and shouts out to the Unsullied guards.

"Help!" she calls, trying to make her voice sound as small and weak as possible. Then, when they don't respond, "Please, I'm injured, help me."

One of them turns and strides over to her, assessing her with a disinterested eye. "You lie," he says, then makes to go.

"No," she gasps. "Please."

The Unsullied glares, but crouches down to her level. Quick as a snake, Arya remembers, and she strikes, kicking the soldier backwards and snatching his shortsword from his belt. She leaps to her feet and slits his throat before he can rise, turning her attention to the other three guards.

Arya backs away, leading them further from the main camp, not wanting to risk drawing Daenerys's notice. The three catch up with her, so she darts to the right and manages to get one in the side, spinning away from his sword as he slashes at her. The two Unsullied left evade her, and she longs for Needle; small as it is, the reach is far greater than the shortsword's, and it is much lighter.

One of the Unsullied levels his speak at her and thrusts it towards her heart, but Arya darts away grabbing onto the shaft and yanking it towards her. It's not enough to loosen the Unsullied's grip on it, but he's off-balance for a second, long enough for Arya to impale him on her sword. She holds onto his spear when he falls and spins to face the last man, catching his spear on hers. They trade blows, the Unsullied never seeming to tire even as Arya begins to feel an ache in her arm from the force of weapons crashing together.

She ducks a movement that would have taken her head off and sweeps her spear underneath his legs, knocking him to the ground, but he recovers almost instantly, fighting his way back to his feet. Arya yells in frustration as her spear clatters away, but grabs her sword and keeps moving; she has faced worse odds before and won, after all.

A water dancer sees with all her senses, Syrio reminds her, so she focuses, and Arya sees.

She sees how the Unsullied seems to favour his right side, how, occasionally, just for the briefest second, he leaves himself open. She sees where he is weakest, and where he keeps closely guarded. And she sees him move his spear just so, at an angle that would take her through the heart if she let it.

Arya spins away from him at the last second, catching his spear in her free hand as it strikes at her. And in that slight moment of weakness, she strikes, thrusting her sword into his chest. Blood runs over his lips as he coughs once, then slides to the ground. Arya pushes her hair out of her eyes and breathes hard, surveying the three bodies. An idea comes to her and she grins, kneeling down beside the first one to die. His armour is mostly unscathed, the only mark of what has happened a dark patch where his blood soaked through. She considers her shortsword, pursing her lips; a knife would be better suited to her purposes, but she doesn't have the time to search for one, so she'll have to make do.

Arya leans close to the body, and makes the first cut.

She's tempted, when she's done, to go back to Jon's camp - or perhaps even Gendry's - to warn them of what might be coming. Even more tempted to look for her weapons; she feels almost naked without Needle or her dagger at her belt. But there is no time - she can see Daenerys beginning to mobilise her men for whatever she has planned for Jon and Gendry. Arya feels a flash of hatred for her, and wants nothing more but to march over and kill her now, but that would be folly.

Instead, she waits until Daenerys has turned away from a group of Dothraki and hurries over, bowing before her.

"My Queen," she says. "This one would ask the honour of guarding you this day."

Daenerys barely glances at her before nodding and moving on. Arya frowns in confusion; she had expected some questions at least, but instead Daenerys seemed distracted, troubled, even.

She does not want to hurt Jon, Arya realises eventually. Unbidden, she feels a pang of sympathy for Daenerys. It can't be easy to have to condemn someone you once loved, Arya had seen that much from Jon, when they first came up with their fools' plan.

But, she reminds herself. She slaughtered this city. If anyone deserves death, it is Daenerys Targaryen.

She sticks close to Daenerys as they are led into the city, right up to the ruins of the Red Keep. The stench of death still hangs heavy in the air, and it sickens Arya to see all the destruction that had been wrought only a few days prior. It had been one thing living through it; quite another seeing it in the light of a new day. Her hand twitches around her spear, but she waits. It would not do to get taken again.

She remains impassive through all of Daenerys's speeches and proclamations; the Queen is too far away from her, if nothing else. She stays her hand during Tyrion Lannister's execution; she has no cause to dislike the man - other than his name being Lannister - but she does not especially like him, either, and one less Lannister in the world is always a good thing.

She even forces herself to remain still during Jon and Gendry's sham of a trial, much as she wishes she could do otherwise. It is only when Daenerys finally steps back that Arya is close enough to grab her. She holds a knife to the Dragon Queen's throat and smiles as she pulls off her mask, revelling in the looks of shock and surprise on the faces all around her. Then she pushes the knife a little harder into Daenerys's neck, and watches as the blood beads around the blade, and the air is filled with fury.

Daenerys's forces scream in unison, but all Arya can hear is the pounding of her own how and the whisper of Daenerys's breath.

"You'll never win this fight," the Dragon Queen hisses. There are but three of you, and my army will defend me to the last."

Arya scans the scene. Jon and Gendry are being held at knifepoint, and the remainder of her pitiful army have begun the charge up the steps. Then a movement close behind them catches her eye, and she smirks triumphantly.

"You're wrong," she says. "Your soldiers are brave, but so are we. And there are far more of us than there are of you"

Daenerys's eyes widen as hundreds of North-men and Stormlanders come bursting into the clearing. The Unsullied and Dothraki turn to meet them, but there is no time to form a shield wall before they are set upon, and their line breaks instantly. The two men holding Jon and Gendry are distracted; they take the brief reprieve to break free and steal their weapons back. Arya tightens her hold on the Dragon Queen, and leans in close.

"Valar Morghulis," she whispers, and opens a red smile across Daenerys Targaryen's throat.

Arya deposits the body unceremoniously on the ground, surveying the carnage around her with some small amount of satisfaction. She hadn't wanted this, not when she'd first met Daenerys - not even after that, when they began their march to King's Landing. But Arya had never wanted much of what had happened in her life, and at least this had been her choice.

She grabs her spear from where it had fallen when she'd grabbed Daenerys, sliding the sword back into its sheath. She much prefers fighting with the spear, she'd found; it is much more familiar in her hands than the short sword, and it has a far better reach. She sweeps it up in a wide arc, scratching the tunic of the nearest Unsullied. She screams, stabbing forward, but at the same moment, there's a piercing shriek from above, and all the Unsullied scatter, retreating down the steps.

The shriek comes again, and Arya's eyes widen as she looks up, only to see the dragon glaring down at her. Its mouth opens and her blood runs cold as she sees a golden glow beginning to build in its throat. Her entire body screams at her to move, but she's frozen in place, staring into her certain death.

Then the dragon roars, and something heavy crashes into Arya, knocking her aside just as the dragon's flame blackens the stone she'd been standing on just seconds earlier. There's still a weight on top of her, Gendry's face coming into focus as her vision clears. He smiles in obvious relief, but a movement to the left catches Arya's attention and she shoves Gendry off her, rolling to the side. The Unsullied's spear-point sparks off the stone, and Arya shoves her own spear into his stomach, the point going right through him. She yanks it out and turns back to the dragon, a great wind almost knocking her over as it ascends into flight, Daenerys's limp body clutched in its talons. She expects it to try and kill her again, but it just sends another blast of flame over their heads, and flies away, soon becoming nothing more than a speck on the horizon. Arya notices Jon watching it go, but he cannot afford the distraction for long - and neither can she.

Arya twirls her spear, blocking and parrying and stabbing as she presses her way down the steps to join the rest of their forces. It's slow going, but there are fewer men up here than below, so she manages to fend them off, alongside Jon and Gendry. Once, her spear is twisted out of her hands, but she quickly grabs her sword and steps inside the man's reach, twisting it into his chest. She pulls it out and bends to retrieve the spear slamming it upwards into another man's gut as she does so.

She occasionally glances over to the main battle as she moves, though she never allows herself more than a second. To be distracted in a fight is to sign your own death warrant, she knows this. From what she can tell, though, the two sides seem equally matched; it is true that they have more men, but her father always used to say that discipline beats numbers every time. The Unsullied are the most disciplined army in the world, or so they say, never breaking rank or running from a fight. But the Dothraki are anything but disciplined, and there are plenty of horse among the Northerners and Stormlanders, too. Arya briefly wonders what this means for them all, but strategy and army tactics have never been her forte. She pulls her mind and her gaze away from them, returning her attention to the next soldier in line.

It seems like an age, and yet not so long at all, until they have the remainder of Daenerys's forces penned in on all sides. The fighting has dwindled to a stalemate; they refuse to surrender, but there is little hope of them somehow managing to fight their way out. The Unsullied have formed a protective shield-wall around their circle, and the few remaining Dothraki appear ready to continue the battle at any moment, despite their horses having been cut from under them. Nevertheless, the wall around them is at least three men deep at every point; it is hopeless.

A minute or two of tense silence goes by before Jon speaks up. "Grey Worm!" he shouts, moving to face the other commander. "Enough!"

"No," Grey Worm growls. "Your murdered our Queen. It will not be enough until we have killed every single one of you."

"You can't win," Jon pleads. "Surely you can see that."

"Then we will die with honour." Grey Worm tightens his grip on his spear and shouts something in High Valyrian. The rest of the Unsullied follow his lead, lowering their spears and jabbing outwards. It's an effective tactic, but the Northerners are able to move back, out of reach, so it only has limited success. The Unsullied have to chase them as they move outwards, leaving gaps in their line, which only weakens their defence. Arya slips between two of them, ducking under a spear and thrusting her sword through one's back, quickly turning on the other before he can attack her.

It is over not long after. Grey Worm still stands defiant, but with several swords at his throat, he has no other option. Arya feels nothing as she watches them be stripped of their weapons and taken away, nothing as she surveys the bodies of the dead, Northern, Stormlander, and Essosi alike. She's heard thousands of stories of the strength of the Unsullied, the wildness of the Dothraki.

But they were men, in the end.

Just like Daenerys.

Just like the Night King.

And all men must die.

She goes to find Jon, later, once it is all done and the sun is almost set once more. He's sat on a pile of rubble, far from the main camp, just staring down at the ashes that sift softly in the breeze. He doesn't look up when she arrives, but she knows that he's seen her.

"I'm sorry," she says eventually, and she means it. Not sorry for killing Daenerys, she never will be, but sorry for what she's done to Jon. As children, he was always her favourite - over Robb, Bran, Sansa, everyone - because he was always there for her. Jon was the one to steal her breeches and a wooden sword so she could play knights with him like the boys did. He was the one she would go to when Sansa made her angry, or Septa Mordane punished her again for showing up to lessons covered in mud. He was the one who never told her she should be better - a better lady, a better daughter, a better person.

Sometimes, she had felt as though Jon was the only one she had in the world, untrue as it might have been. And she thinks she might have just taken any chance of happiness away from him.

"I wish…" she starts, then trails off, unsure how to tell him what she means.

But Jon understands anyway. "Me too," he says, turning his gaze up to her. She's surprised to see that he's been crying - but perhaps she shouldn't be.

"I don't blame you, little sister. For any of it." He smiles, though it's a watery thing, and shifts so that there's room for her. She sits, unsheathing Needle from her belt and holding it across her lap. She had worried that Daenerys had destroyed it, somehow, but she'd found it in her command tent, along with the dagger Bran had given her.

Jon laughs quietly when he sees it, then picks it up and runs his gloved hand down the blade. "It seems like an age ago that I gave you this."

"It was," Arya says, though she remembers the day clearly. It's one of the few before-days that she does, most of them turning fuzzy or faint. She had been so distraught over Micah's death; she can't even remember what he looked like, now.

"And you kept it, all these years?"

"It got stolen, once, not so long after I fled this city," she tells him. "I got it back though."

"And the man who stole it?"

"He died."

Jon nods once, his silence all she needs to know that he's worked out that Polliver may not have just died.

"Tell me true, Arya," he says after a while. "How did you survive all that time? I didn't hear much at the Wall, but after Father died, they told me that you'd disappeared. No-one even heard your name until you showed up at Winterfell again."

She hesitates before answering, but Jon deserves the truth. Sansa does, too, and she swears to herself that she'll tell her, in time. Perhaps not the whole truth, perhaps not everything, but she'll tell them everything she can.

So she does. She tells Jon about Yoren, how he was going to take her to Winterfell on the way to the Wall. She tells him about Gendry and Hot Pie, and the Hound and Beric. She tells him about Braavos, and the Faceless Men, and the long, long journey back home.

And when she's done, Jon hugs her, and then he talks about his own fight at the Wall. By the time both their voices are hoarse and there's no more telling to be done, it's halfway through the night, and a chill is stealing through the city.

They sit in silence, watching the stars light up the sky, and Arya feels peace for the first time in a very long time. She's not sure yet how she feels about Jon knowing the truth of her, but she doesn't want to become No-One, not ever again. And if this is how she has to do it, then that is what she must do.