From the crown of the First Tower, Arya felt a twinge of jealousy as she watched Jon mount Rhaegal and set off to Dragonstone beside Daenerys and Drogon. Arya wanted to ride the dragon with Jon. Long had Arya wished to mount one of the flying creatures from Old Nan's tales. To soar above Winterfell and the gleaming, snow-covered North. Arya could not deny such yearning still lurked within her, but over the years those dreams she once held so dear now felt distant and foolish.

Dreams are for children.

Arya knew she was needed to administer Winterfell. Bran remained still unwilling to leave the godswood and, like as not, wouldn't be readily accepted as Lord of Winterfell in any case.

"Until I return, the North will need leadership and they look to the Starks. They look to you, Arya," Jon had told her before he set off with his Dragon Queen.

"They remember their king in the North," Arya said. "And they are not blind. Any fool can see I am no lady."

"You are more than a lady. You are a hero. Seen by many as the greatest hero Westeros has known since the Age of Heroes."

Arya frowned. Jon's words were too close to those said by Bran in the godswood. But Jon's words weren't lies or exaggerations, either. Upon Arya's return to Winterfell, people sneered and whispered mockery when they wrongly believed she could not hear them. After the Long Night, they still spoke in whispers, only now their hushed words were full of awe and wonder. Most could not meet Arya's eyes, and everywhere she went someone was bowing as she passed.

Arya needed not, nor wanted their supplication.

"I am even less a hero than I am a lady."

Jon cupped his hand behind her neck as he used to when they were young. Arya could feel the half-healed cuts and calluses on his palm and fingers scratch roughly against her skin as he leaned in and pressed their foreheads together. Another familiar gesture of affection from Jon, and it almost made her want to smile.

"Lady or not, you saved the world, Arya. Aye, you're a hero, all right. If you want to be or not. And you're now the Lady of Winterfell whether you want to be or not as well."

Arya tried to look away, but Jon caught her head in his hands. The coarse skin on his palms was unaccountably warm against Arya's cheeks. She looked into his eyes and saw tears in them.

"Until I return," he said, "be now what she cannot. Please?"

Damn you, Jon.

Arya nodded then Jon kissed her forehead then turned away and climbed onto his horse. After giving Arya one last long look, Jon trotted away to join Daenerys. The Dragon Queen watched them from her mount, a beauty of a white mare, surrounded by a dozen of her Dothraki warriors, who sat astride long-legged horses. Each copper-skinned man was swathed in leathers and furs and armed with arakhs and bows. When Jon joined them, the host rode out of Winterfell's gates to where the last two dragons in all the world made their roost in nearby hills.

Arya watched them go with eyes that burned and a heart that ached.

Damn you.

Arya avoided the Great Hall where she was sure the maester from Dreadfort waited for her. He would have letters from distant holds asking after news of loved ones almost certainly dead, burned, and interred.

Just like…

Let them hold their empty hope a few days longer, Arya decided. She was not one to give words of comfort and gratitude anyway. They can wait.

When Gendry found Arya, she was moving fallen stones from the Courtyard with a dozen other men, mostly wildlings—or Free Folk, as Jon called them. When Arya joined them, the fur-skinned men quietly acknowledged her presence with only the shallowest of head bows before they went back to work.

Arya liked these men.

These men, and the rest of their people, now led by Jon's big red-haired friend, were waiting for the winter storms in the far North to abate before they returned beyond the Wall. Until then, Jon had given them leave to remain in Winterfell for as long as they liked. Arya didn't disagree with the decision. If Jon hadn't made it, she would have.

Gendry had been knighted by Daenerys during the celebration feast. It wasn't legitimization, the Dragon Queen was not so foolish as that, but a knighthood made Gendry opportunities he would not have had otherwise, and he seemed pleased enough with that. He could not take the surname Baratheon, and like as not never wanted to, but hadn't yet chosen one of his own. Arya heard Ser Davos had a good time suggesting more and more ridiculous names for Gendry.

The knighthood was an obvious political ploy, but no one could say Gendry had done nothing to earn the queen's favor. Thousands of men women and children who stood against the dark had fought with dragon glass weapons Gendry made. He'd put down hundreds of wights with his hammer, roaring like a demon as he shattered bones and smashed undead flesh. Gendry was called Robert Reborn aplenty by those who'd witnessed his fury during the Long Night.

Gendry with his shaven scalp, and bruised and scraped face, appeared anything but a knight when he approached Arya. He wore no fine suit of armor, nor wielded a shiny bejeweled blade on his hip. Instead, he wore a dirty tunic under a heavy brown cloak lined with fur. Along with trousers, boiled leather boots, and it was a forge hammer that hung on his hip instead of a sword.

Since his knighting, Arya noticed Gendry walked now with an easy confident instead of the cocky, prideful strut he had when they first met that hinted at uncertainty just underneath his swagger. Though his current gait didn't belong to someone who thought the world was made for him as most lords and ladies had, it was nonetheless bold and surefooted.

Arya spared Gendry a glance just long enough to see him incline his head in greeting before she returned her attention to the pile of stone at her feet.

"My Lady."

Arya ignored him and lifted the shattered stone and placed it in a nearby cart. Once full, the cart would be taken to the masons to see if any of the debris was salvageable.

"I-I need to speak to you as Lady of Winterfell," Gendry said. "About something important."

Arya looked at him. Gendry wasn't lying. He wasn't before her to offer meaningless condolences, though sympathy was etched plain as can be on his face.

"What is it?"

"It should be spoken on in private, I think."

Gendry wasn't lying about that either.

Arya nodded then motioned for Gendry to lead the way. She followed him all the way back to the area Sansa gave up to the blacksmiths, armorers, and weapon makers. Where obsidian weapon knives, arrows, and spears had been shaped into being non-stop until their number filled a thousand wagons.

They passed several smiths and forgers before Gendry took them into a small room far from the others and closed them inside.

"I didn't get to speak to Queen Daenerys much even after she got done knighting me," Gendry said then let out a wry chuckle that didn't quite hide the apprehension Arya heard in his voice. "I admit I was fearful if I did, she might up and change her mind."

When Arya said nothing and only stared at him, Gendry cleared his throat before he continued.

"I didn't get the chance to ask Her Grace what to do with her dragon's bones. I thought it might be best to ask you what we should do with 'em."

Gendry had Arya's full attention now. Dragon remains. Arya remembered beneath the Red Keep a cavern of dragon bones, entire skeletons that were hundreds of years old and not one rotted or turned to dust.

"Where have you put them?" Arya asked, perfectly concealing her excitement.

"All here, down in the cellar and locked away safe."

I did not think this part of the castle had a cellar big enough to hold a dragon skull!

"Can you make anything useful of them?"

Gendry stared at Arya, surprise and worry glinting in his bright blue eyes before he turned the question over in his thoughts.

"Ain't sure," he said, "I've never worked any dragon bone before. Not sure anyone here knows how to forge the stuff, either."

"Dragon bones can't be burned," Arya said, remembering something she read in one of Maester Luwin's books.

"Guess maybe we can make spears and arrowheads easy. Knives and such."

Arya fingered the pommel of the Valerian dagger at her waist. "Hilts, as well," she said.

Gendry nodded slowly. "Aye. Think we can make some bows too. We got an Ironborn forger who says the bones are flexible enough to make 'em."

Arya suppressed a sneer—she thought all the reavers died in the godswood.

Mayhaps…

No. The Ironborn stood, fought, and shed their blood in Winterfell. And they helped to defend what was left of Bran in the godswood. Future opportunities to spill salty blood will come.

The Ironborn always made certain of that.

"Any usable scales?"

Gendry nodded. "Plenty. Enough to fill two wine barrels to overflowing. Our armorer says he can make full suits of scale armor for three grown men. A suit of plate armor with a combination of dragon bone and steel might be possible too."

Is that so…

"The skin is tougher than leather. Water-tight and light for its thickness. Ain't no seamstress, am I, but I think there's enough material to make trousers, surcoats, and tunics to outfit half a hundred men," Gendry said.

Arya nodded stiffly.

Sansa would know, she thought.

"We'll make use of the dragon bones, scales, and skin," Arya said, "but leave the skull untouched. It's teeth as well."

Arya also read a Dornish prince returned Rhaenys Targaryen's dragon Meraxes's skull to King Aegon as a peace offering many years after the dragon and its rider fell to a scorpion bolt. The gesture seemed to appease the Targaryens and halted the long-brewing conflict between Dorne and the Iron Throne, but not end it fully.

Daenerys too can have her dragon's skull returned to her, should she remember it exists, but the rest will serve Winterfell.

"Yes, My Lady."

"I want to speak to the armorer first. Take me to him."

"Yes—"

"Arya's fine."

Gendry smiled.

"Aye."