I had to lift a line from the show-version of Gendry's proposal to Arya. May she wise up in the end and realize that being his wife wouldn't mean having to be a typical lady of her era. This is a guy who sees her for all she is—including a killer—and finds her beautiful.
She'd kissed her husband goodbye. She wanted to say something to him—something that would mean something—but the words wouldn't come.
"Stay alive, 'Arry. I'll come back. I swear it. All I know is that you're beautiful and I love you and none of it will mean anything if you're not with me."
For a moment—one last moment—she let those words light her face and her heart. As she kissed him goodbye, she locked them away in her heart.
Arya watched from the shadows as her husband and brother departed with a small party of men, including Ser Davos. She had also bid her brother farewell privately. He had given a low, gravely chuckle when she told him not to be too honorable. His reply had been to ask her too watch Sansa's back, adding, "I'll leave Ghost with you."
She and the wolf lurked out of sight, and as Jon and the voyagers left Winterfell, Arya watched Littlefinger appear at her sister's side. He was to far away for Arya to hear, but he was cooing into her ear about how much better off The North would be with her in charge, and how it would bring them one step closer to their goal.
The next few weeks were marked by departures and arrivals—of people, of crows bearing messages. Leanna had to return to Bear Island. Brienne of Tarth came to Winterfell with her squire, Podrick. Free Folk turned up daily. People of the North, wanting to secure a place before Winter turned colder, streamed into Winter Town.
Meanwhile, Arya struggled to find her place in Winterfell. She was not the girl she had been when last in these walls. She was not no one. She was not truly Lady Baratheon. It was not that she did not love Gendry, but…a Lady? Organizing servants and clothing and larders? That wasn't her. It would never be her. So she bided her time, training the men and women of Winterfell and sparring with Brienne of Tarth, who was a masterful opponent. During those moments, she could forget all other troubles and focus on the lesson: one more way to live. One more way to tell the God of Death, "Not today."
With each day that Jon was away, Petyr Baelish was working harder and harder to sew seeds of distrust: distrust of the populace for Jon, of Sansa for Jon, and of Sansa for Arya. The women had met eyes one day and formed a wordless agreement: they would keep their distance from each other, and lull Littlefinger into showing his hand. What they knew and he did not was that the people of the North trusted no one from the South, and that coins were worthless when Winter came.
A wagon arrived one day, bearing Bran—their brother, but not their brother. They embraced him, stretched in that wagon, seemingly frozen under their embraces. They later surmised that he was able to move from the waist up. His stillness had not been physical. It was more that he had forgotten how to be a person. Later that day, the siblings sat beneath the Heart Tree in the Godswood."I could never be Lord of anything," he said. "I am the Three-Eyed Raven." He explained that he could see all that had aver been and all that now was.
Little Finger's words echoed in Sansa's mind: "Don't fight in the North, or the South. Fight every battle, everywhere, always, in your mind. Everyone is your enemy, everyone is your friend, every possible series of events is happening all at once. Live that way and nothing will surprise you. Everything that happens will be something that you've seen before."
And then he spoke of Sansa's wedding night, as coolly as one might describe a sunset. He spoke of the moment when Arya had decided to go to Winterfell instead of killing Cersei, crossing the name from her list. He showed them the Valerian steel dagger Lord Baelish had given him in the brief time between his arrival and this garden conversation. He passed the blade to Arya, knowing it was meant to be hers.