arya had half a mind to press her further, to get this avelley
to speak the words aloud ; but decided that was less important
— that, at least, it could wait. the girl’s fear — my niece’s fear,
she thought, but that was too dizzying to consider in full, just
yet — was fading, being replaced by anger and pride and
something else with no name, but all sentiments she recognized.
for a moment, it was — in spite of tully colouring — like looking
at herself, or rather the self that she had once been … and that
was enough to strengthen her convictions. yes, she would help
this girl. would spare her from the life she’d had. no more running,
no more hiding in shadows, no more lying. winter was coming,
and girls could be wolves, and storms in skin, as much as anyone
else and better.
she’d only have to teach this one how to howl again.
bright, harsh flare of her confidence’s eclipsing, sun and moon,
halted jarringly, even so, at the inquiry that followed, abortive
and incomplete as it was ; though arya refused to let her gaze
drop or falter, it settled an old, familiar weight into her chest,
one she’d almost forgotten how to feel. i have a hole where
my heart should be …
there was no sense in lying to the girl about this either.
she made no move closer, nor further away, though she felt
her voice grow quieter — not less certain, but hushed and
weighted down by the years of shadow, grief, distance.
they say he can’t be killed …
and who are you, the proud lord said, that i must bow so low — ?
only a cat of a different coat, that’s all the truth i know. in a coat
of gold or a coat of red, a lion still has claws, and mine are long
and sharp, my lord, as long and sharp as yours, and so he spoke,
and so he spoke, that lord of castamere, but now the rains weep
o’er his hall, with no one there to hear …
‘ by coincidence. i was … the story’s a long one.
two years long, at least, or more. i’ll tell you, if
you want, but not now. not here. will you come
with me, or not — ? ’