A girl felt nothing.
The north was colder than ever, its heavy winds stabbing through tripled layers of clothing. The walls of the inn gave some comfort, but it was now time to abandon them. When she went outside a girl was shivering, but her heart was still as stone.
They spoke about all she wished them to. Robb was avenged, Sansa was well, Bran was back. Winter is here. But not minutes ago, when Jon Snow had left for good, the she-wolf was alone again. For years she had imagined this moment, yet when it arrived it was lost, imperfect, and with it, came the recognition of lost love. The child in her sought it to happen, and when it did, she realized the child had died. I wanted this, she tried to tell herself, as a girl went looking to purchase a garron, but who was she speaking to?
If anything, it proved that the job was done well. Five gifts were given to the Many-Faced God, as instructed. Walder Rivers. Lothar Frey. Lord Walder. Tyrion Lannister. Arya Stark.
When the waters of Pyke rushed to meet her, a girl realized she was no cat. The plan was to escape to the shores by foot, not leap off a window and hope for the best. The fall had taken the breath away and threatened to take away her senses, but a girl survived. The rocks and the blackness of the night kept her in the shadows, safe from disinterested sentries.
When it was safe, a girl had snuck in the cave, where the body of the tavern wench lay. She had drowned two nights past, which a girl had found and kept hidden. The commands were clear. Arya Stark must die.
Her hands passed across the dead girl’s face with great care. She had been taught how to do it, but wearing was easier than placing. Minutes passed, then an hour. A girl was patient. Magic was worthless without human hands. When she was done, Arya Horseface stared back at her with empty eyes. Jaqen’s work was, as expected, immaculate.
After the faces were traded, the body was released into calmer sea waters. Needle with it. Arya Stark must die.
A girl traveled by ship when it was safe. She met with old men of the north, slept in abandoned keeps, ate at inns near Winterfell. She never felt one with the men.
By the time she had made it to Mole’s Town, any hope of finding the dead girl was lost. Arya Stark had died. Arry was dead, Lanna was dead, and there was no cat of the canals. She was no lone wolf, because she was no wolf. No one cared for her, and she cared for no one. A girl felt a tear, and she hastily wiped it away.
When she bought the garron, the old man in the stables tried to make conversation. He asked her where she was going. To give a gift, she wanted to say. Five gifts were given to the Many-Faced God, but one remained. “When you’re all the way north, there is only one way to go,” she said instead.
*
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