The wood was darkening. Pale light shone through the barren trees at slanted angles – the last light of that short day. Flakes of snow fell toward the ground here and there, harbingers of a storm to come.

The she-wolf did not mind them. It was winter here, but of a lesser sort. The cold did not bite her furs nor the darkness limit her vision. She ran through the forest with the rest of her pack, blacks and greys and whites all far smaller than she. They moved as a family – hunting what little there was to hunt in these barren woods.

As they ran, one among them stopped, raising his head to a bitter northern wind. He turned. The others did too. The signal was understood by all without a sound shared between them: there was flesh to be had… and near.

He bolted. The she-wolf followed, catching the scent and overtaking her smaller brother. Swiftly she ran through the thin, barren trees and over ice-slick stones and deep forest furrows packed with old snow. Northward she ran, toward the promise of a meal for her family.

Other scents mingled amongst the flesh. That of the forest itself, dying and withering, was chief among them, but she could smell the others, the birds high above them, the far-off fires of men, and the great river.

It was there she ran, the scent growing strong as the tree line thinned. Yet the scent changed too. It was flesh, yes, but it was strange - like the snow itself was living – and rotting. It did not matter. They had to eat.

At last, she burst through the branches guarding the riverbank, snapping some and shaking the snow from others as she leapt forth. The sound of rushing water and cracking ice filled the area. The powerful waters in the middle had not yet frozen, but the shores were choked with ice.

The she-wolf looked around scanning the shoreline for a sign of her prey. There was nothing. Across the waters, the tops of the trees stuck out from a dense, cold fog like underbrush from a layer fresh-fallen snow. She could smell something over there, too… something she did not want to hunt.

Her brothers and sisters joined her on the shoreline, looking around for their prey. A few raised their snouts, noses twitching eagerly in the hopes of being the first to find the meal.

The scent was near, upstream but close. Two of the younger wolves ran towards it, bounding along the mighty river's side. She followed, as did the rest of the pack.

The air grew colder as they ran. The mists that covered the opposite bank crept across the waters. Odds sounds echoed from within the white fog. She could hear the heavy footfalls that sounded like man's, but also not.

Soon enough, they found the source of the scent. A buck lay dying on the riverbank, half submerged in cracked ice; its life's blood leeching into the frozen river. Its side had been torn opened by some other beast. The sight and scents made her mouth water.

It was barely breathing. Yet as the boldest of her back approached the creature, he jumped back. The surface erupted in a plume of white water and shards of ice. A man stormed forth from the icy water, eyes burning like man's fire.

The she-wolf leapt at her foe, barring her teeth for only a moment before sinking them into the man's neck. With practiced ease, she tore a chunk of flesh away and retreated to watch him die.

Only he did not. The man continued forward, clawing at the closest of her pack and snarling in rage. The wolves attacked as one, ripping away bits of cloth and flesh as they overpowered their enemy. The assault only stopped when the man had been torn limb from limb, but even then his body moved as if alive.

The she-wolf moved toward the broken body, sniffing the torn, wriggling arms. The whole thing smelled of death. Cold death.

A sound from the far bank made her look up. Lights burned through the mist like men's torches through their own smoke. There were many – far more than she had in her pack. The smallest wolf, a pup born late in autumn, whimpered in fear.

The men shambled toward the shoreline, snarling and growling like wolves. The she-wolf snarled back, but slowly backed away to the trees. Her pack followed. They would have to hunt somewhere else. She kept her eyes on the far bank as she retreated through the barren branches into the forest…

Then suddenly she was looking across the river at the retreating wolves. It no longer felt cold. It really did not feel like anything at all. The world was oddly blue – with flecks of white and grey amidst the gloom. She would smell the wolves. No. She could feel them. Their heat. Their blood. Their life. It all drew her forward like a hunter's hunger.

Memories not her own filled her. Villages burning. Children screaming. Blood flowing… then freezing. The men of these lands were many. Soon this river would freeze and they would cross again – just as they had the others.

She paced downward to the riverbank and felt the ice crack underfoot. Not yet. Yet she peered over into the clear grey waters of the river and saw a carved, jagged, and pale face set in with two burning blue eyes looking back at her.

Arya screamed… and awoke with a start. Her chest was burning. Her brow was covered in sweat. She blinked away half-remembered dreams and visions. She had been somewhere else… within something else. Yet she could not recall where she had been.

She looked around. Dark forms surrounded her – she could hear their slow, hesitant breaths. She blinked her eyes rapidly, trying to adjust to the dim firelight. Slowly, the forms took shape.

Sansa stood off to her left, a look of relief clear on her face. Behind her, Brienne stood with her hand at her sword's pommel and Davos at her side looking grim. Arya shook her head back and forth, trying to clear her vision. Her untidy hair – far longer than she remembered – brushed at her shoulders. Her chest burned as she labored to draw in each breath. How did I get here?

"She's awake," Sansa sounded awed. She rushed forward and threw her arms around Arya, who almost fell backwards from the force of her sister's sudden affection. They stayed like that for a moment, sisters locked in a warm embrace. Then Sansa steadied herself and pulled away, allowing Arya to turn to the other side of the bed.

Gendry leaned against the furthest post, grasping one arm in the other; a thin line of blood trickling from the hidden wound down his forearm to his free hand. Despite the blood, he wore a look of utmost relief – almost a smile.

Arya's cheeks began to burn as well as she remembered their last moment alone before the battle – before leaving Winterfell. Yet the warm flush spread to a burning rage as she at last recognized the figure standing by the room's hearth.

"You!" she shouted. Gendry's eyes widened and Brienne took a step forward from the shadowy corner.

The Red Witch stood just a few feet away. The fire's glint in her eyes matched the soft glow of the ruby around her neck. Just the sight of her filled Arya with anger. Without truly thinking, she lunged for the table at the side of her bed where she always kept Needle.

She stumbled. Weaker than she remembered, Arya fell sideways and almost tumbled off the bed. Worse – Needle wasn't there.

The dagger, she thought as she scrambled to the other side of the bed and grasped the cold dragonglass hilt of the Valyrian steel dagger. It would do. She lunged back across the bed, scrambling toward the Red Witch. Her arms felt weak and her legs burned in protest as she struggled forward. The Red Witch stepped forward to meet her, seemingly unfazed by the display.

Then two strong hands grasped both Arya's wristed as she writhed in a useless protest.

"Stop!" Gendry said through gritted teeth. His efforts were soon aided by Davos and Brienne. Arya could have fought them off, but she found she did not have the strength.

"Arya! Stop," Sansa called out from the other side of the bed. Arya did not heed her sister's words, but instead continued to struggle against Gendry's firm grip. It did little good. She was far too weak.

"You fire burns stronger than ever," Melisandre spoke at last, sounding almost amused. Her eyes fell to the dagger clutched in Arya's left hand. Recognition flashed across her face for only a moment before her visage settled back into its familiar smug certainty.

"What are you doing here?" Arya snarled. She had at last stopped struggling against Gendry's overpowering grip, though she stilled grasped the dagger in one hand.

"She saved you," Sansa interjected.

"From what?" she asked. All the while, Melisandre continued to smile knowingly.

"You've been in bed for weeks," Gendry explained, a note of worry mixing in the strain in his voice. "Asleep, ever since the battle."

The battle… A rush of images filled Arya's mind: the dragon and the wights and Jon charging into the fray; Gendry and the Hound and so many others battling against the dead; and the Night King… and Needle. The blade had shattered in the fight.

She felt a great stabbing pain in her side as she looked to where her old sword had been within an arm's reach night after night. The blade, a gift from her brother, had been her constant companion through her travels.

The throbbing continued for far too long. Arya gritted her teeth and pulled away from Gendry. He let her go. She gingerly pulled up the side of her woolen undershirt and saw a faded blue mark – like a brand upon her skin. Fear filled her.

"What happened?" she whispered to the room.

"You tried to fight him – that-"

"Night King. Great Other. A demon of ice and shadow and cold," Melisandre interjected. "He leads the great host of the dead."

"So we've heard…" Davos mumbled from the other side of the room.

"So, we lost?" Arya asked.

"The battle, yes," Sansa stepped forward to speak, "but not the war. Jon and Daenerys flew south to aid White Harbor, where the dead are now."

South… Other images filled her mind – memories only half her own. Here she was bounding through the woods and there resting in her den. I was with Nymeria. That much she knew. She had been running along the river and then… South… Where the dead are now… or at least some of them.

"I saw them," she blurted out.

"Who? Jon?" Sansa asked.

"No," Arya answered, though she wished she had seen her older brother. She wished he were here now. "The dead," she finished.

"You had a vision?" Sansa asked. Davos raised an eyebrow. Melisandre's smile faltered. Gendry simply met her gaze as she looked to him for reassurance.

"I'm not – it wasn't – I don't know," she tried to explain. "It was like a dream, but I saw one of them. I was one of them!"

The room was silent for a moment apart from the crackling of the fire. Arya looked around to each guest in turn, her eyes meeting Melisandre's for only a moment before returning to Gendry's comforting gaze.

"He marked you," Melisandre said. "His power lives within you – or it did before the Lord of Light drove it from you. Perhaps you saw what he sees?" It was a troubling thought and the company reacted accordingly.

"Where did ya see them?" Davos asked, his voice colored with concern. "Do ya know where?"

"South… the Riverlands, I think?"

"How many?" Brienne asked, stepping forth from the shadows to make her considerable presence known once more.

"I don't know…"

"Bran will," Sansa said, cutting off the questioning. "In the morning, you need to speak with him. He'll know what happened."

"My Lady, I think that-"

"In the morning, ser," Sansa stopped Ser Davos from completing his protestation. "My sister is awake, but she is not well."

"Not well? I'm fine! I fought in the battle!" she said firmly, trying to stand up beside the bed and once more grasp the Valyrian dagger. She stumbled. The steel felt unbalanced and heavy. Her knees felt weak; her legs fatigued and empty. Gendry caught her before she fell.

"I told you: rest," Sansa ordered. "The rest of us should leave her be. Lady Brienne, if you will," she nodded at her guardian, who opened the door and led the way out. Sansa followed, but stopped before the threshold and turned to Melisandre, who stood just behind her. "And thank you, my lady. Whatever your faults, you have done my House and family a great service. The hospitality of our hearth and hall is yours." The Red Woman only nodded before she followed Sansa Stark out the door.

Davos met Arya's eyes for a moment, looked at Gendry, then left the room. Arya lay back against her pillows, too tired to pursue the departing company or even keep herself propped up any longer.

"Well…" Gendry said as he turned away and made to leave. Suddenly, the room seemed darker, the fire dimmer, and the air colder.

"Wait," Arya said, her voice sounding far stronger than it had a moment ago, yet oddly soft too. Gendry's visage softened. Arya thought she saw the ghost of a smile pass over his face.

"M'lady?" he said with a half-certain smirk.

She scowled, but quickly gathered her thoughts. Her heart began to flutter in her chest – perhaps even skipping a beat. Here, in her childhood bed and looking at the boy she had traveled with and fought beside – and kissed – Arya felt a little girl and a woman all at once.

She ventured forth with a soft courage. "Would you… stay?"

"Stay?' Gendry raised an eyebrow, but it was only for show. She knew he knew what she meant.

"With me."

He turned toward the door and, for a moment, Arya thought he might leave her. But he only reached for the door's iron latch and pulled it shut. Once more, she noticed the bloody red streak on his arm.

"What happened?" she asked, nodding at his exposed wound. Gendry looked down at his arm and shrugged as he walked back to the bed.

"Nothing, just an accident in the forge," he said, though he did not meet her eyes. At once, she reached for her woolen shirt and tore a long strip of fabric away – holding it out to him. Gendry smiled as he took it and wrapped it around the wound, wincing as he tied it tight and secured it with a rough knot. Then he simply stood there, looking between the bed and the floor beside the hearth.

Arya felt herself grow warm again – and not from the fire. She shuffled sideways and made room on the near side of the bed. "There's room here," she said softly. Gendry nodded.

He tried to climb onto the bed but winced as he swung his leg up onto the furs. He gritted his teeth and withdrew for a moment.

"Your leg?" Arya asked, noticing far heavier bandages wrapped around his muscled leg.

"Just another wound from the battle – nothing like yours, though."

And Arya remembered why she had been struck – rushing to Gendry's aid after he had been bested by the Night King. "Does it hurt?"

"Not as much as it did."

Gendry climbed up once more, carefully this time, and settled in beside her. It was still early enough in the night and she was far from tired. Perhaps they might talk of the battle and the war… or else of her parting gift to him before they marched off to the river.

Yet within a few silent moments, Gendry was fast asleep. She smiled to herself and moved closer to him, pulling the furs up to cover them both and rest her head on his chest and, slowly, drifted off to sleep while listening to the crackling of the dying fire.

Her dreams were filled with terrible images: burning city streets; screaming women and children; blue-eyed corpses and fierce winter storms. She was not sure whether they were truly nightmares or memories. In and out of them she drifted, in one moment lying awake looking at the fire's smoldering embers and in the next cast back into shadow and flame.

Were it not for the shrieking northern winds, Arya might not have awoken at all. No light streamed through the windows as it had during the summer mornings of her childhood. Through the window, she could see the black night sky had turned a dark grey, then slowly to a polished steel. The sun could not be seen, nor had it been for weeks.

Arya missed its warmth for her room was rather cold. Gendry had gone some hours earlier – no doubt to return to his work in the forge. They were at war, after all. I wish he had stayed, she thought.

She laid abed for quite a while, listening to the wind and the faint sounds of activity from the yard. Twice she tried to rise from her bed, but the pain in her side was far too great and she failed to move more than a few paces.

So she lay abed. A servant had lit a new fire in the hearth. She watched as the flames consumed each log, turning each to ash.

The flames – lively and free – seemed to mock her. Worse, they reminded her of last night, when the Red Woman had done something to her. No one had said what it had been. The Red Woman… The thought filled her with a hot burning anger. She had stolen Gendry away, had broken apart the only family she had known after the Lannisters took her father's head. And now she's here.

Jon will deal with her, she told herself. He will know what to do. But Jon was leagues away…

The door opening wide interrupted her thoughts. She thought it might be a servant come with fresh logs, but looked up to see Gendry holding two pewter plates laden with food, wispy clouds of steam rose off the hot fare.

He wore a satisfied grin on his face. "I, well, I thought you might be hungry after not eating for a few weeks."

And she was hungry – ravenously so. She had not realized it until she inhaled the scents of bacon and bread wafting toward her. Arya might have leapt from the bed if her injuries had not prevented her from doing just that.

Instead, Gendry walked toward her and handed her a plate. At once, she ignored all courtesy in favor of devouring the meal with both hands. Gendry laughed – and when she had wolfed down the hunk of bread he split off half his own portion and handed to her. She ate that too.

"It's not much, with the rationing and winter and all, but it's-"

"It's good!" she forced the words through a full mouth.

Gendry smiled and gave her a moment to eat. "When you're ready, your sister asked for you to meet her in the godswood."

Sansa… What could she possibly need right now? No. Arya held her annoyance in check. She had been abed for week and had certainly missed much. Indeed, had Sansa not said Jon flew to White Harbor?

"Fine," she responded. Gendry only nodded.

"So," he ventured forth after Arya had swallowed another mouthful, "what do you remember from before?"

"I'm not really sure," she mumbled the lie into her bread. "Just bits from the battle."

"Oh…" he said, looking away. "I heard you mumbling in your sleep last night – and not those names either."

"I always do that," Arya insisted.

"No, you don't."

"And how would you know that?" she scowled, though only partly serious.

"I stayed in here, with you, for weeks," Gendry said, "you know – when you were sleeping."

Arya felt a flush begin to creep up her neck. He stayed here? It was an odd thought and an odd feeling, but necessarily a bad one. In fact, just sitting here alone with him and only two hot meals and warm fire to keep them company was rather nice.

"Oh." Now it was her turn to look away. The silence did not last long. She felt a rough, calloused hand grab hers and hold it tight. She gave it a quick squeeze and looked into his deep blue eyes.

He cleared his throat. "We, uh, we should go. Your sister will be waiting."

Slowly, they readied themselves. Arya made no attempt to hide herself as she dressed, but Gendry played the nobleman and turned away to give her space.

When she was ready, Gendry helped her down the tower stairs and across the yard. She helped him too, steadying his pace and supporting him. They made their way to the godswood together.

Sansa, Samwell, and Bran were already standing by the heart tree. Just the sight of the old weirwood filled Arya with strength. She could not recall how many times she had run around the yards only to find her father oiling his greatsword beneath the great red canopy, the same bloodred now as it had been in summers past.

Sansa and Sam turned as they approached. For the first time, Arya noticed the foreign soldiers lining the grove. There were only a few of them, but they stood as resolute as the weirwood itself, their robes colored the same blood red mixed in with fierce crimson, soft amber, and glowing golds and oranges. Each man held a spear tipped with a black iron point. They did not move as the pair approached.

"Arya," Bran called out, though his chair was turned away. "You're awake."

"Yea…" she responded after a silent moment. He's not the same. His voice… his eyes. My brother has gone somewhere else.

Gendry and Arya closed the rest of the distance in a few struggling strides. Sansa stepped back to make room for them. Sam gave a half-hearted jump backwards to further observe the courtesy. They stood in silence for a moment, listening to the wind above the grove the restless rustling of the leaves.

"We need to know what you've, well… what you've seen," Sam ventured forth into the topic at hand. "Your brother's visions let us know where the Night King is, but if you've seen the dead in the Riverlands…" his thought melded with the silence of the wood.

"They were just dreams," Arya countered, though she knew it to be a lie.

"They weren't," Bran said. "He touched you. He marked you." As he spoke, his white and withered hand pulled back the fur cloak and revealed a faded blue mark upon his arm. "He did the same to me."

Arya rounded the group and stood facing Bran, her eyes drinking in the evidence of their shared curse. "What does it mean?" she asked.

"I don't know," he admitted.

"Well, when I touched a blade of dragonglass to it, you, well, you shouted," Sam offered. Silence fell over the group once more.

"You said you were in one of them. What exactly did you see?" Sansa inquired.

"I was…" Arya paused to think. Gendry gave her a curious look. "I was with Nymeria," she admitted. Sansa looked surprised. "And then I wasn't. I was in one of them… beside a river. I knew where I was, but it all felt… different."

"Maybe it's true then," Sansa said. "The dead have crossed the Neck. We thought they were only at White Harbor, perhaps not even so close as that. If they reach the capital…" She turned to Bran. "Can you see them?"

"I can try," he responded wearily.

At a look, Sam wheeled Bran's chair within reach of the weirwood. He reached out and touched the bark, his skin the same shade of pale white as the trunk itself. Arya watched in queer fascination as his body slumped and his eyes rolled back into his head. Then a searing pain cut into her side. She screamed.

All she could feel was white hot agony slowly subsiding with each heartbeat. Gendry held her tight as she writhed. Bran, too, had shouted. The mark on his arm looked brighter than before.

"What was that?" Sansa demanded. "What happened? What did you see?"

"Nothing," Bran panted. "I saw nothing." He clutched at his arm much as Gendry had his wound the previous night. "Not the dead. Not the Night King. Nothing."

Sansa sighed. "We need to know what's happening. Can you try again? Can we find Gilly?"

"No."

The firmness of Sam's response created another uncomfortable silence in the grove. Overhead, the leaves rustled in the breeze. "She's resting," he said at last. "As is the child."

For a moment, Sansa looked as though she might burst with anger. Then, she swallowed her pride and responded with a lady's courtesy. "Very well," she said. "What about White Harbor? And Jon and Daenerys? We need to know where they are too."

"There's no need for that," Bran said.

"Why?"

"They're already here."

...

Hey All,

First of all, thank you so much for all the great reviews and for sticking with this story (especially through the long content gaps). At this point, I've decided to move this story exclusively to AO3. I find the interface far superior and I actually get to engage with readers in a comments section. It's a personal preference and does not affect the story itself - only where it will be read. This will be the final update to Home on this site.