Arya Stark
She had lived so little, yet had seen more than many people did in an entire lifeti.
A quiet and peaceful Northern fairy tale had once wrapped her in its magic while she lived in Winterfell. Now she understood more clearly than ever how beautiful that ti had been. Her father and mother, caring and loving Jon Snow, dependable and taciturn Robb, curious and restless Bran, and little Rickon. Even prissy, untouchable Sansa had lost all those "bad" qualities that used to drive her literally mad. Now she seed like a perfectly tolerable older sister.
That had been her pack.
The pack was gone…
Everything had gone to hell when the fat, perpetually drunk King Robert arrived in Winterfell and invited her father to the capital to serve as Hand.
He was surrounded by Lannister scum, the bastard prince Joffrey, and all manner of other filth. The trouble had started almost imdiately. Conflicts with that soft-handed Joffrey led to Mycah's death, and then to the killing of Sansa's direwolf, Lady.
King's Landing had been interesting at first, but she quickly realized that the people there were deceitful and vile—not like back ho in the North. The only bright spot, aside from her father, had been her fencing instructor, Syrio Forel.
And then it all ended…
Her father was arrested and, so ti later, executed. She had seen it with her own eyes—the crowd-packed square before the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor, Cersei, the smiling Joffrey, the impassive Hound, and the executioner Payne.
The gathered crowd roared, demanding blood.
She saw the swing of the sword—her father's own Valyrian steel blade, Ice. She closed her eyes, and only the noise and jeering of the mindless mob confird that it was done. It felt as though her life had ended in that mont. And those animals had killed her father with his own sword.
She cried, while a flock of indifferent pigeons circled above the square.
After that ca the journey north with a Night's Watch recruiter nad Yoren. Yoren was killed, and she ended up in Harrenhal. There, she t Jaqen H'ghar, and he told her that, in the na of his god and to repay his debt, he would kill any three people of her choosing.
Jaqen only needed to hear the first na.
By then, there were many she wanted dead. At the top of the list were King Joffrey and the Hound. But back then she had been young, foolish, and naive—unable to distinguish what truly mattered from what did not.
She gave Jaqen her first na—Chiswyck, a soldier in Gregor Clegane's company. After him, she nad Weese—for constantly beating them all.
And then Vargo Hoat and his Brave Companions brought captured Northerners to Harrenhal. Instead of giving a third na, she arranged for Jaqen H'ghar to help free them and seize the castle. A day later, her brother's bannerman arrived—Lord Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort.
That was when she realized just how foolish and naive she had been.
Jaqen could have—and should have—killed truly important people: Joffrey himself, his grandfather, perhaps the Kingslayer, or his sister Cersei. Instead, she had squandered an incredible opportunity on worthless nobodies—people whose nas were forgotten almost before their bodies had gone cold.
Only the last act—the taking of Harrenhal—ant anything at all.
After so ti, she found herself with the Brotherhood Without Banners, led by Lord Beric Dondarrion and the Red Priest, Thoros of Myr.
She didn't like it there.
The only decent person among them was a young man nad Edric Dayne. As it turned out, he was Jon Snow's milk brother.
After Beric Dondarrion allowed the Red Priestess to take her friend Gendry, Arya ran away. She was almost imdiately captured by Sandor Clegane—the very man whose na had been on her list.
At first, the Hound intended to take her to the Twins and ransom her back to Robb Stark. But the Red Wedding happened at the Twins, and all the Northerners were slaughtered like sheep.
They survived by sheer miracle.
The Hound turned east, heading for the Vale of Arryn, where her aunt Lysa Arryn lived.
They traveled through the war-ravaged Riverlands. The Hound killed without hesitation—for food, for a new pair of boots. She killed too. She had learned much… and understood so things.
That was how she ended up in the Vale. Lysa Arryn did not welco her niece.
"You upset Robert—look at him, he's nearly crying just looking at you! You could bring trouble upon us," she said during a conversation held in a small chamber, attended only by her most trusted people.
Lysa Arryn—arrogant and sullen—sat at a small table, slowly sipping wine. Beside her, her young son played with a wooden knight. At first, Arya thought he was no more than five or six years old. It turned out the boy had recently turned nine. She had never seen such a crybaby.
They gave her a room and left her to live in the Eyrie. Within a week, her greatest wish was to escape from there.
But it was impossible.
The castle could be left only in two ways.
The first was through a hatch connected to a massive winch and chains, used to haul up food—and sotis, in special baskets, to raise or lower people.
The second path led through the only gate. The road descended toward the Bloody Gate, a narrow trail laid with ti-cracked stone slabs. At tis, it ran along the very edge of a precipice, where relentless winds howled and snow fell without end. A single sharp sound in the mountains could trigger an avalanche.
Moreover, the path was guarded by three additional small castles.
(End of Chapter)
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