"𝑊𝑜𝑙𝑓'𝑠 𝐵𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑑," their father always called it. Could make a man or woman wild in a sense, unpredictable, and powerful. And when a violet-eyed twin born to the Lord Eddard Stark, all knew that the boy would have it. And he did.
Beside his...
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꧁꧂
Who am I?
A girl from the North.
No, no, that's Arya. That's not me.
There was confusion, tiredness, and everything else that came with such dreadful things. Hunger ate away at her bones and body, her ribs showing, and yet she had never been more fit, more agile and elegant in any form. Her art was not yet perfected, but it were near perfect, but it were never enough for them.
A girl from nowhere.
That sounded better to her as she ran atop the roofs of houses as swift as an eagle, silent like a cat, both creatures tracking prey.
Right. But what about Winterfell?
Home.
No. There is no home anymore. Father is dead. Robb and Mother are dead. Sister is a traitor, Bran and Rickon are who knows where, and—
She had taken a sharp pause just on the very edge of a building, a large gap between it and the next one she had barely started to leap across, but had halted at the thought of those faces. Frowning, a foot dangling off the edge dangerously, and yet so easily smooth as she frowned, staring ahead as if searching for those faces, as if those faces were either the next jump or turn away, or upon the horizon. Regardless..the night was dark, and she saw everything. Everything but them.
It was the first time in a while she bothered to, after all, it was something she was used to. The girl looked down below to the streets, far below where she found herself. Commerce coming and going wasn't unusual in Braavos at that time of night.
The city never sleeps.
Everyone who does, does so with one eye open.
Like me.
Regardless of the Titan above, his broken sword reaching for the stars high above, he wasn't always watching. People in Braavos liked to think that he did, watching over them during the days trades, the nights gambles, the mornings hangovers, but the Titan too had to sleep.
