He's real. It's really him, she kept telling herself, still half-convinced he would disappear, only a mirage in the mind of a delusional little girl. But Arya could feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest with each breath. She could feel the heat of his skin against her own, the contact sending an occasional shiver through her body as they remained locked in their fierce embrace. It felt strange. She couldn't remember the last time someone had hugged her.
As a child, Arya had lost everyone she loved, leaving her alone, consumed by an anger that begged for blood. Seeking a path to vengeance, she had crossed the Narrow Sea to train in the art of death. There she had grown into womanhood surrounded by strangers without feelings, men without identities. The Faceless Men. They had taken everything she had left. Her possessions. Her senses. Her emotions. Her name. Her memories. She had given all of it to them.
All except one thing.
Even after she had let Arya Stark die, after she had truly become no one and felt nothing; even then she'd kept one thing. Even when she no longer remembered why, she'd kept it. A skinny sword in a sheath of black leather, supple as sin, hidden away beneath a loose stone.
She didn't know how long she'd left it there. Some number of years. Then one night, she'd dreamed again.
It had been years since the last one, but she'd recognized it as a wolf dream immediately. Colors were dull, almost nonexistent in the moonlight, but her sense of smell was keen, heightened beyond all else. For a moment, the world was comprised only of the scent of fresh snow and even fresher death. Then her mind calmed, allowing her to take in the strong, metallic taste of blood. She could feel the wolf's hunger for more, her own hunger for more. Manflesh. She would have joined the pack of smaller wolves in their feast, as she used to do in these dreams, but there was something different this time. A voice so airy it could have been the wind, and maybe it was, but it was also somehow familiar.
Was it calling a name?
Arya. Arya.
The wolf turned, seeking the source, and focused on a face carved in the pale bark of large tree, its eyes crying a thick, dark red substance that smelled more of blood than sap.
Arya.
She had worn half a hundred faces, but none had been like the one she saw before her now, ancient beyond ancient. She had seen countless images showing the different aspects of the many-faced god, yet this felt different. The old gods of Westeros, she could tell. Somehow it felt... real... as though the gods were watching her, calling out to her. Not the many-faced god. Not the god of death. But the old gods themselves.
The gods of her family.
A girl has no family, she had reminded herself.
But when the wolf looked at the pack that surrounded her, feasting still on the flesh of their enemies, she had known. This was her pack, and she had another as well, waiting for her to return. Her family was calling her home, and she would answer the call.
Though she could no longer remember what she'd hidden beneath the loose stone, she knew it was hers. And when she touched it once again, she did remember.
Needle.
The pain had been overwhelming, excruciating. It was the first thing she had felt in years, and it was wonderful. A beautiful, searing pain. She couldn't get enough of it. Memories came flooding back. Her family. Her list. Her sword. Her half-brother. Everything.
Once she had thought that nothingness wasn't better or worse than anything, that it was just nothing. But she now realized how wrong she'd been. Nothingness was worse than anything she had ever known. She wanted the pain, the rage. She needed it because she needed to feel in order to be alive.
Arya Stark had been reborn.
Now she was home, standing in what had once been her parents' bedchamber and Jon Snow's arms were wrapped around her, holding her impossibly close. Jon Snow, who had loved her without question. Jon Snow, who would want her even if no one else did. Jon Snow, who she had loved more than anyone, who she had missed more than anyone.
He brought his mouth to each of her fingers, gently but purposefully, his lips soft, their touch tender. When he kissed her palm, Arya felt a warmth radiating through her body and her breath seemed to be caught in her throat. She wondered if that was what love felt like. She couldn't remember anymore.
"I'm so sorry," Jon said, now relaxing his embrace and taking her hand in one of his own and holding it against his chest. He looked at her with such pain in his eyes, Arya didn't know what to say. "I should have never left you. I should've been with you," he continued. He brought the back of her hand to his lips once more and held it there, even as he spoke. Arya could feel his mouth forming each word. "I should have protected you."
His lips against her skin overwhelmed her senses, and Arya had to fight to regain control of herself. She tried to pull away, but Jon released her hand and tightened his arms around her. He wasn't letting her go.
Feeling the corners of her mouth turning up in a wide smile, Arya found that for the first time in years, she could not control her face. After everything that had happened, she was home again. She was in Jon Snow's arms, and she was happy.
She didn't want him to ever let go.
