Chapter Text
Dark. Dark, cold. Cold even as fur tickled her nose...
And wet, wet on her cheek.
Arya's eyes fluttered open to the sound of panting and whining and she caught sight of a pair of glowing red eyes and bright white fur against the moonlight.
"Ghost," she muttered, trying to shove the beast away. It did little good; the direwolf, even bigger than her Nymeria, barely budged. So much for once being the runt of the litter.
She changed her mind about his leaving when she noticed the fire had burned out in the hearth in front of her bed. It left the air nearly frigid and she could see her breath when she sighed. Ghost radiated heat and she buried her face into his fur, lost for a moment in one of the rare comforts left to her. He was softer than Nymeria, but then again Ghost preferred to stay close to the Winterfell castle whereas Nymeria was constantly on the hunt in the snowy woods. Ghost had taken to sleeping in her chambers since she arrived a little over two moons ago. Typically he stayed at the foot of her bed, but that was when there was a roaring fire.
Reluctantly she rolled away from him, yanking back the fur covers. Immediately she shivered in her shift; it was thick and warm, provided there was a fire nearby. She padded quickly over to the hearth and immediately crouched down to do a servant's work, not that it mattered. What was the point in calling for anyone in the middle of the night, when she could manage just fine. All the years away from home had taught her life skills of every kind, and if she couldn't handle starting a fire, then there was something wrong with her. Well something else wrong with her.
In no time the fire blazed warmth into her face. Ghost whined and made his way back to the foot of the bed to curl up on a pile of furs while Arya stared into the flames. In her mind she heard the screaming of the Red Woman as the fire licked her limbs, her sensuous body turning to a charred mass and then to ash. One off her list, her list that has long since been finished. All dead. All gone. Along with her family.
Except Jon. Or, what was left of Jon.
It had taken so long to travel from Storm's End, and now that she was here she wished she had never arrived. It wasn't the cold that bothered her; winter was in her bones, but this winter has been exceptionally long. Everyone expected the Long Night to fade when the Wars were won, and they had dreamed of a spring that still remained elusive. Even Dorne had been affected with colder weather, and the Night King's demise at Jon's hands did nothing to ease the climate conditions. Maester Sam predicted spring was imminent, but to the nearly starving masses it was hardly a consolation.
Arya closed her eyes for a moment to still the screaming in her head. She felt nothing for the Red Woman except relief that she was gone, but sometimes the piercing cries echoed and intermingled with other sounds of agony and terror. Voices of the dead followed her, tormented her and she was a prisoner of them; she could not escape.
Just as she could not escape her brother's - no, cousin's - own demons.