Westeros was as freezing as ever, but the woods gave her solace from the winds. When eve approached, no one lit a fire. The warmth of the flames was a huge source of comfort. She felt herself doze, sleepily hoping that she would not wake to watch the woods aflame.
She stood, alert, borrowed sword in hand. “Who goes there?” she said, turning upon herself, as the soft crunching of leaves came closer. When they finally approached, she realized they were not men.
A pack of wolves were glaring down at her. They had surrounded her from all sides. Is this how I am to die? she thought, staring into the eyes of the leader of the pack.
Arya blinked, and blinked again.
“Nymeria?”
The direwolf came closer, but she felt no fear now. She held a tentative hand forward, and Nymeria’s head bowed slightly, as if wanting her master to pat her. She was about to, but the hand froze in mid-air. Come with me girl, she wanted to say, but she did not. She did not let her fingers touch the furs.
Instead, a girl sheathed her sword. She walked away from the direwolf, gathered her things, and left. She heard the wolves howl behind her when she walked, but she forced herself to not look behind. Arya Stark was dead.
You have the wolf blood in you, a voice in her said, but she shunned it. Even if the real Arya, she allowed herself to think, hid underneath the shrouds she wore for years, it was too broken to return to. Arya Stark was a heap of broken images, with no parent, brother or friend. She could not be Arya. She could not even have a name.
All she could do was fight and kill.
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