To epitomize the world in which we live, we must first step back and remember that we are flawed.
But to understand the world in which we live, we must recognize that man realizes just this: the good exploit the flaws and the wicked jeopardize their...
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His voice—perhaps only he can hear over the pounding of blood in their ears as throats swell and become immovable plugs to the presence of life, the distorted breath stuck in their lungs and leaving these sons—wishing they'd taken more treasure in the presence of safety. And maybe if they had been smarter—but likely because adrenaline courses through their veins with a vengeful fury of karma—the lot of them would not be coughing out the remainder of their lifeforce—breath, blood, and tissue of deteriorating body borne naught from blades. Poison—and it is the first time that Arya understands why this is the 'weapon of women.' And despite it all, their choking and blood echoing her heartbeat of potent joy, her voice still comes out as his, gravely and never-savory, "Leave one wolf alive and the sheep are never safe."
Just like it was promised, as within that one minute, that perfectly timed speech, the men fall upon their frozen cheeks, skin pressed flat to worn tables and spelling the obvious—dead. The older hand reaches from beneath that front table to pick at his wrinkly neck, tearing at that line indistinguishable but to herself and pulling from the nooks of cloth—a new face. The lone survivor, the wife, stares from beneath that table with fear—not of Arya Stark herself but of the massacre capable by the seventeen year old girl—that the world has come this, that women kill murderers of kin.
"When people ask you what happened here," the girl's strangely soft voice imparts upon the younger woman, her stark grey eyes speaking forth a tale meant only for the likes these, "tell them the North remembers. Tell them Winter came for House Frey."
And the girl swears, as those doors part behind the body of Arya Stark, that the winds of Winter whispered through the hall—'with no one there to hear.'
Six months hence victory—the Battle of the Bastards the children call it—and Gabrielle cannot quite come to understand how the world has yet to implode upon itself. Murder of the King and Queen, reconstruction of Winterfell, travels of Daenerys Targaryen, march of the Night King. It all had seemed like a massive force months prior, that there would be no way to handle it all—that no man could prevail against all these enemies, foreign and domestic. They'd spent weeks piling over maps and books, tales of old and newer accounts, in those weeks following the battle, hearts still soaring with the adrenaline of victory and potent fear of what they know is marching.
And yet, from the masses of letters to the few visitors, time wore them away into a sense of domesticity and they lost their edge that had kept them sharp against enemies. Less time was spent in study, more time was spent discussing lands with lords. Less time focusing on correspondance, more on travel to other Keeps. Indeed, Gabrielle wants to think it all logical—that they've good reason and instinct behind relaxation—but there's a sense of urgency she's come to embody in these prior days, knowing they are wasting time.
