I.

Bran's face was cast into shadow, creating a hood around his eyes as he sat still and patient in the Godswood. The flickering torches - spread thinly amongst the trees and illuminating a path from the gate to the Weirwood tree - were few and far in between, leaving the spaces between them filled with an all-consuming inky blackness.

A blackness that seemed to move and warp on its own, making Theon Greyjoy swallow thickly as his eyes darted nervously around the sacred space. He shifted nervously, his leathers rubbing against each other in a soft whisper that cut through the stillness of the evening air.

It is evening, isn't it? he thought with a frown, his hand coming to rest on the dagger at his waist.

He wrapped his fingers around it as he thought back to the scrambled preparations earlier: how scouts had seen the slow, determined amble of dead as they began to crest hills and emerge silently

from wooded groves, their eerie blue eyes the only light against the creeping darkness as clouds blocked the sun, snow blocked the landscape, and darkness descended on the North and Westeros.

Then it had been mad, with Daenerys and Jon taking to the skies on their dragons; Lannister, Brienne, and the Wildlings had moved to be the front line once the Unsullied and Dothraki took the enemy outside Winterfell's walls; and Arya, Davos, Theon, and Sansa were to remain inside the castle, protected only by several curtain walls and a maze of boobytrapped corridors that would hopefully slow the dead down.

Slow. Not stop - because there would be no stopping them until the Night King was eradicated. And Theon wasn't sure who was going to deliver that fatal blow when his job was to protect Bran Stark, whose eyes were milky while as his blank, placid face with his chin tilted up fixated on the weeping face carved into the Weirwood tree. He was lost somewhere in time - or perhaps space, Theon was never sure and didn't quite understand what happened to make the young Stark the Three-Eyed Raven particularly - leaving him vulnerable to an enemy who was coming only for him.

And then, faintly, a sound caught Theon's attention and he turned his head toward it, squinting in the darkness.

He sucked in cold air harshly as he recognized it: cries. Cries of pain, war cries, cries for backup. The fight was now within Winterfell's walls.

Lights flickered beyond the Godswood, breaking the darkness of the wooded area as rooms within Winterfell lit up, a fire beginning in one tower as it slowly expanded and crept upward, smoke spiralling into the black sky. Theon could vaguely hear the roar of the flame and the crackle of wood as it splintered within the tower, but the flames themselves were a beacon of light that illuminated the space around.

A large shadow swooped through the clouds and smoke, too fast to make out except for the distant roar and accompanying shake of the earth. A further, distant roar responded, and then another - but a cry of pain.

"It's not going well."

Theon jumped, his heart furiously thundering as he spun to face Bran.

His eyes were no longer milky white, but dark and hooded. His facial expressions were still blank, but he was facing Theon and not the Weirwood tree anymore, despite not moving his hands from their folded place on top of the thick woolen blankets that covered his legs in the wheelchair constructed for him.

"What's happened?" asked Theon, through a suddenly dry mouth.

"Jon's dragon is dead," replied Bran, his voice monotone. "He cut its head off with the help of some Wildlings, but the courtyards are being overrun with giants now."

For a strange, wild moment, Theon imagined Jon's headless dragon getting to its undead feet and chasing after him, only to squash him; but the image was quickly dispelled as Bran continued to speak.

"Please go find Sansa and Arya, Theon. Bring them here. Jon is already on his way." Theon paused. "I'm supposed to remain with you--"

"I will be fine while you are gone. You won't be long," the younger teen assured him, although his assurances fell as flat as his voice.

Theon grimaced, but nodded and took a hesitant step forward; then he took another step, and another until he was marching purposefully through the dark of the Godswood and through the gate, keeping his back along the rough stone so nothing would sneak up behind him.

He found Sansa first, near the kitchens, shouting orders and directions for those to gather what weapons they could - knives and pots and iron pokers - and ordering others to boil water for wounds and poultices to be mixed with the mortar and pestle.

She paused only when she saw him. "Theon?"

"Bran wants you in the Godswood," he said, dipping his head briefly in acknowledgment. Her thin red eyebrows furrowed, but she nodded slowly. "Gyllis? Take over for me."

"Yes, milady," a portly, worn-looking with flyaway grey hair replied, her voice already hoarse and weary. She curtseyed once and then turned away, taking up Sansa's position as Theon gently took her arm and guided her from the warm space.

"How bad is it?" Sansa murmured as they stepped outside.

"Bad. Can't you hear?" he replied just as quietly, and they both stopped to listen as the screams and cries grew louder. The burning tower - to the far southeast of them, one of the parts of Winterfell near the main gate, drew their attention.

"Do you know who set it?" she asked.

Theon shook his head. "I've just been sent to find Arya next. Bran said Jon was on his way to the Godswood."

"Why?" asked Sansa, following Theon as they inched down a dark hallway, Theon's dagger held tight in a white-knuckle grip. "Oh. His dragon?"

"Dead."

"Any news from the others?"

"Nothing yet. Just that we're not doing well."

Theon glanced back long enough as they edged around a sharp L-corner to see Sansa's face. It was long, in Stark fashion, but tinged grey and there was a tight, pinched pull at her eyes. It was enough that Theon took her hands in his. "It'll be okay. Bran has a plan."

Sansa offered Theon a small, wobbly smile, but it never reached her eyes. They both knew how the night was going to end.

They found Arya by accident as they exited Winterfell, near the Godswood gate. She launched herself from above, from one of the covered wooden catwalks that joined two stone buildings, just as a blue-eyed wight burst from the grainery door on their left.

Sansa sucked in air sharply and Theon bent his knees, readying his dagger to slash at the wight but it was Arya who landed heavily on it and hacked it quickly with precise slashes of her thin sword.

Body parts fell to the frozen dirt, the limbs still twitching and one of the hands trying to gain

purchase against the slick ground to pull itself forward toward them.

With a scowl of disgust, Theon reached for the nearest torch, tucked into a metal sconce, and thrust it at the nearest limb, watching dispassionately as it burst into flame.

The head, still on the torso of the wight, opened its mouth and let out a high-pitched, unearthly wail.

"Shut up," muttered Theon, poking his torch at the other body parts, beginning with the torso and head.

"There'll be more coming soon," warned Arya, nearly blending in with the wall and shadows around them.

"Theon said Bran is asking for us," replied Sansa instead, drawing her cloak tighter around her body. It was the brightest part of her outfit, a dull Stark grey against the black of her leather and cloth dress.

"Then let's go. I'll take point," said Arya, turning on her heel and moving through the courtyard with ease of working in the dark.

Sansa and Theon scrambled to hurry after her, Theon taking the rear to protect against any wights that were following, but the rest of the journey to the Godswood was quiet. As they passed under the thick wall that separated Winterfell from the Godswood, Arya pulled them aside and then swung the rusted gate shut. It creaked loudly in the still night but latched with a loud snap .

"It won't hold them long," she said grimly at Sansa's look. "But it'll give us a warning that they're here."

"Good thinking," murmured her sister, although there was something resigned in her eyes.

They hurried down the uneven ground to the familiar Weirwood tree and reflection pool, where Jon stood facing Bran, his back to the pool, as he ran his hands agitatedly through his curls.

"--me anything of what's to happen?" he demanded as they approached. "What's going on?" asked Sansa, her voice the slightest bit sharp.

Bran's dark eyes flicked toward his remaining siblings and Theon, who brought up the rear until he stood at Bran's side once more.

"We're all here like you asked," continued Arya, her mouth pulling down into a frown. She crossed her arms. "We should be out there, fighting. What did you need of us, Bran?"

Sansa moved to stand at Jon's side, touching his arm lightly. Jon dropped his scowl at the touch, glancing at his sister-cousin before sighing. "He wouldn't say anything until you arrived."

"Well?" prompted Sansa after a long, pointed silence.

Bran turned his head back to face the weeping tree and closed his eyes.

Something clenched tight in Arya's chest at the expression and she slowly dropped her arms. "Bran...?"

"It was too little, too late," he finally said, the barest hint of something in his tone. His voice was tight. "We have lost."

"No." The word was wrenched from Jon's mouth before he consciously realized he spoke. "No - Bran - we're still fighting - we can continue -"

"Your dragon is gone," replied Bran, opening his eyes and turning back to face his siblings as they lined up in front of him. "Daenerys is overrun in the skies with the Night King controlling the other. The Unsullied and Dothraki add to the undead, and the main gate has been breached. Winterfell will fall."

"If Winterfell falls, so does the North," whispered Sansa through bloodless lips. An aborted move of a hand coming up to flutter at her throat became a clench of her fist at her side.

"And then so does the rest of Westeros," finished Arya grimly. "Had Cersei actually sent men--"

"We can't think that way now," interrupted Jon, his mouth pulled tight. He turned partially to Sansa. "We need to evacuate whomever we can, quickly--"

Sansa nodded, her blue eyes turning vaguely inward as she began to think logistically. "We'll need to send a message out, send everyone south--"

"It won't be enough."

Jon and Sansa fell silent, turning to Bran.

"We have offered our blood, our toil, our tears, and sweat," began Bran slowly. The expression on his face was surveying, one of the most emotive expressions he had worn since returning to Winterfell. "But it is not enough to ensure victory."

"Then what must we do, Bran?" demanded Jon, his voice tight and furious. Theon shifted at Bran's side, uncomfortable with the turn of the conversation. "If we cannot flee, if we cannot send those south to continue to fight - must we fight to the end until we become part of the Night King's army of the undead?"

"No," said Bran slowly. "Not you."

That took the wind out of Jon's sail and he paused long enough to stutter, "What?"

Sensing something off, Arya's body tensed and she moved her hand slowly to Needle, stroking the hilt like one would stroke their favourite pet.

"What do you mean, Bran?" asked Sansa, a quiver in her voice.

A bang, another, and then a loud creak broke through the silence between the Starks. Theon's head whipped around to face it, his body turning wholly toward the path to the gate.

"They've broken in," he said, unnecessarily.

"We're out of time," said Bran in response, blinking. With each blink, sorrow etched its way onto his face. "Please know: I am only doing this because it is the only road to victory."

"Do what, Bran?" Sansa's voice trembled, rising shrilly.

Twin bobbing blue lights began to blink into existence, and Theon withdrew his sword instead,

shouting, " they're here, they're here! "

"I'm sorry," whispered Bran, closing his eyes as his mouth turned into a frown and his brow furrowed.

Alarmed, Jon took a step toward Bran -- but Bran's eyes opened, a brilliant white that was more than the Three-Eyed Raven of the Stark warging ability. Red began to bleed toward the center of his eyes, stretching like the limbs of a tree, just as blood began to bead at the corner of his eyes, trickling down his cheeks like tears.

Bran shifted in the chair and then stood , causing Jon to stumble back in alarm as his eyes turned all red. His nose began to bleed, dark red, but the sight of their paralyzed brother standing and then stepping forward stunned the Starks long enough that Jon was unable to defend himself when Bran shoved him - hard - and he tripped over his feet, falling heavily with a loud splash into the reflection pool behind him. Shards of ice from the partially frozen pool broke and splintered onto the ground around them.

Theon leaped forward at the same time, toward the wights as they emerged from around the thick trunks of the godswood, his sword clashing with the first that approached. Arya, torn between helping Theon and Jon, hesitated for just the barest moment.

"Jon!" screamed Sansa, turning to her cousin; she never saw Bran's hand as he shoved her, too, and she flailed her arms, shrieking as she tipped face-forward into the pool.

The Others could take Theon , determined Arya, turning to Bran and whipping Needle out from its holster. "Bran - why--"

"It's the only way," said Bran, but there was something off, different from his voice. He took another step forward and Arya slid around him, away from the wights and Theon, who was screaming something, just noise, not words as he hacked away. She kept her eyes on Bran as she took a step back.

Bran didn't move, just watched her. "You need to hurry."

" I need to hurry?" repeated Arya, snorting as she tossed her head.

"I can't keep them in between forever," answered Bran, something tense in his voice. Arya blinked. "Inbetween?"

But Bran made a move toward her, almost a puff of his chest as his tall, thin form loomed, and Arya jumped back to keep the distance between them. Only when she landed, it was on the splintered ice Jon's fall into the reflection pool scattered, and she slipped.

"Bran!" cried Arya, her arms wheeling up as she felt gravity pull her down. She went to twist her body, to move and land to the side of the pool, but something was wrong and she couldn't move in any direction but down, down toward the water...

"Whatever you do--" Arya heard Bran's voice say, although his mouth didn't move "--No matter how afraid you are, you must keep going. This is the only way we survive. The only way we win."

And then Bran was gone as she hit the freezing water, bits of ice swimming in front of her and blocking the sight of her brother just as the Night King appeared behind him.

No! Arya tried to scream, but nothing but bubbles emerged as the dark waters swirled around her and dragged her further down.

Her thoughts raced, jumbling together: the reflection pool isn't this deep; I've swum in it before... Where are Jon and Sansa?... What did Bran mean?...

She could no longer distinctly see the surface of the reflection pool, but there was something pale and welcoming above her. She began to kick.

At the first kick, she barely moved. The water was thick and determined to keep her, but Arya's lungs were burning and she had to move up. With the next kick, she moved - and she heard a voice.

Do you fight for the living?

It was Jon's voice, familiar and loud with anger and grit.

She kicked again, and then she heard a low, mean voice mutter: The Lannisters send their regards. Mother screamed.

Arya tried to scream back, bubbles escaping her mouth and she kicked harder against the thick water. With each kick, a new voice echoed around her, sometimes murky and distant, and other times, clear and distinct. But each kick brought her closer and closer to the gentle, pale light that filtered above her.

The King in the North!

I am the dragon! Me! Not you, Dany--

In the game of thrones, you either win, or die.

Sun of my life -- Moon of my heart --

We've come to a dangerous place.

A direwolf for each of your children, m'lord. And a runt for Snow.

Ser Jorah Mormont, you are to be exiled--

The Other's take Balon Greyjoy if he thinks he can defy me by becoming king! There is only one king in Westeros, and that's me: Robert Baratheon! It's war!

There is no one like us, Jaime...

Let it be known that Cersei Lannister and Robert Baratheon are one heart, one flesh, one soul... What did you do , Lannister? You -- You are a kingslayer.

Burn them all! Burn them ALL! If I can't have King's Landing, then no one - least of all Tywin

Lannister - will!

Promise me, Ned. Promise me.

RHAEGAR, YOU BASTARD! COME AND FIGHT ME, DRAGONSPAWN! I, Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, offer my cloak --

You are with child? Then the prophecy will come to pass: there will be three heads to the dragon, Lyanna...

Trial by combat, Lord Stark? Very well. My champion -- will be -- FIRE!

And then, as Arya stretched her hand toward the surface, the water warming the slightest bit, she heard another voice. It was a man's; clear, sorrowful, and deeply conflicted, and he spoke in a low rumble.

--please protect Brandon and those who went with him south. Please, I am in need of your guidance. Please, send me a sign, something to help me. I know to answer the King's summon means my death, but he is my firstborn and my daughter is missing...

Arya's hand broke the surface and then she surged out of the water, clutching tightly at the rock protrusions around the pool with a white-knuckle grip with one hand and Needle in the other as water sluiced off her and she heaved deep gasps of air.

She heard Jon's pants and saw his black form as he heaved himself further up out of the water and onto the mud and grass, just as on Arya's other side, Sansa shivered silently with streaks of long red hair plastered to her forehead and neck.

"Well," began a familiar voice - only it was no longer sorrowful but rather cold. "This is a surprise."

Arya glanced up, blinking water from her eyes.

A man in black fur slowly rose to his feet from his perch on the edge of a rock at the reflection pool's side. It was a rock that Arya was familiar with, as her own father often sat on it when he needed time with his thoughts.

When the man reached his full height, he was imposing. He had a thick black fur cloak around his shoulders and was dressed in grey and black leathers and tunics, while a large Valyarian sword glittered in his grip as he held it aloft from the pool. His eyes were icy shards that flicked from Arya to Sansa and Jon, and his long dark brown hair was pulled back from his face in a manner that reminded Arya vaguely of her Uncle Benjen.

Slowly, Jon brought himself to his feet unsteadily, teetering as he blinked at the man that was a near mirror image, except for the difference in their hair. Somehow, even though the armour and furs must have weighed more than twice Jon's weight, including Longclaw, he had managed to swim upward as Arya had without losing his sword and weapons.

Sansa dragged herself a bit further onto the ground and then rose, until she was once more the Lady of Winterfell, chin tilted up stubbornly as she smoothed her waterlogged dress and then her hair.

Arya jumped up, ready with Needle to defend her family.

But the man merely glanced back and forth at them. Finally, in his low voice, he growled, "And who are you to emerge from a shallow reflection pool in my Godswood?"

" Your Godswood?" spat Arya, glaring at the man. "Winterfell is our home! This Godswood is ours !"

"Arya..." whispered Sansa suddenly, her voice low and cautious.

The man blinked. "Arya? My... my mother's mother was Arya Flint." He suddenly stared hard at her and then Jon, his grey eyes flickering back to Sansa every so often.

Sansa instead sucked in a breath, her entire form freezing.

The man put his sword down slowly, resting it against the rock he was previously sitting on. Then he put his hands out and took a step forward.

Arya wanted to shuffle back, but the last time she did she ended up in the pool and wanted to avoid that, so instead, she stood her ground, baring her teeth at the man.

He paused, his entire face softening as he looked at her.

"Lower your weapon, child," he demanded, although it was a command without any harsh edges. "You will come to no harm here."

"How can we trust that?" asked Jon, wariness in not just his voice, but his body as he inched toward Arya and Sansa and his hand twitched back, toward his scabbard.

"We are family," the man said.

"Oh?" snapped Arya. "Just who are you, then?"

The man stared down at her for a long, long moment, and then said, "I am Rickard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North." The man paused, hesitating and almost frowning, but he then pushed forward. "And I believe you are either my grandchildren or some other close relation."

With that, Arya's jaw dropped in shock, and so did Needle as it fell from her hand.