She was running. Those were not the crummy yards of Harrenhall, not the clean, stern and stony spaces of Winterfell. It was the forest. It was the way to her own promontory. Her own throne of stone and earth. She ran, and it was liberating to have her nostrils fill with the scent of pine trees, to feel little pine needles and dry leaves under her bare feet. She sat on her hunches and looked over the sprawling landscape below her.

A brother called, then another, then a sister. She howled back in response, at the moon, the trees and the glorious darkness that was her friend. They came, then, slinking out of the shadows, to sit in a circle and howl with her, a terrifying, chilling chorus of predatory voices calling at the moon. Tomorrow, they went to war.

The girl slept fitfully in her cot, and awoke suddenly. There were people talking in the neighboring hall, and she stood, readying herself hurriedly.

“Those damned wolves had another of our men, today,” the voice was saying. “Feels like they're even picking their targets, now.”

Something prickled at the back of her neck, and then Arya knew. The man was a Lannister.