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With
Pinkeye
awake
,
she
dared
not
go
back
to
her
bed
.
Not
knowing
where
else
to
hide
,
she
made
for
the
godswood
.
She
liked
the
sharp
smell
of
the
pines
and
sentinels
,
the
feel
of
grass
and
dirt
between
her
toes
,
and
the
sound
the
wind
made
in
the
leaves
.
A
slow
little
stream
meandered
through
the
wood
,
and
there
was
one
spot
where
it
had
eaten
the
ground
away
beneath
a
deadfall
.
There
,
beneath
rotting
wood
and
twisted
splintered
branches
,
she
found
her
hidden
sword
.
Gendry
was
too
stubborn
to
make
one
for
her
,
so
she
had
made
her
own
by
breaking
the
bristles
off
a
broom
.
Her
blade
was
much
too
light
and
had
no
proper
grip
,
but
she
liked
the
sharp
jagged
splintery
end
.
Whenever
she
had
a
free
hour
she
stole
away
to
work
at
the
drills
Syrio
had
taught
her
,
moving
barefoot
over
the
fallen
leaves
,
slashing
at
branches
and
whacking
down
leaves
.
Sometimes
she
even
climbed
the
trees
and
danced
among
the
upper
branches
,
her
toes
gripping
the
limbs
as
she
moved
back
and
forth
,
teetering
a
little
less
every
day
as
her
balance
returned
to
her
.
Night
was
the
best
time
;
no
one
ever
bothered
her
at
night
.
Arya
climbed
.
Up
in
the
kingdom
of
the
leaves
,
she
unsheathed
and
for
a
time
forgot
them
all
,
Ser
Amory
and
the
Mummers
and
her
father
’
s
men
alike
,
losing
herself
in
the
feel
of
rough
wood
beneath
the
soles
of
her
feet
and
the
swish
of
sword
through
air
.
A
broken
branch
became
Joffrey
.
She
struck
at
it
until
it
fell
away
.
The
queen
and
Ser
Ilyn
and
Ser
Meryn
and
the
Hound
were
only
leaves
,
but
she
killed
them
all
as
well
,
slashing
them
to
wet
green
ribbons
.
When
her
arm
grew
weary
,
she
sat
with
her
legs
over
a
high
limb
to
catch
her
breath
in
the
cool
dark
air
,
listening
to
the
squeak
of
bats
as
they
hunted
.
Through
the
leafy
canopy
she
could
see
the
bone
-
white
branches
of
the
heart
tree
.
It
looks
just
like
the
one
in
Winterfell
from
here
.
If
only
it
had
been
.
.
.
then
when
she
climbed
down
she
would
have
been
home
again
,
and
maybe
find
her
father
sitting
under
the
weirwood
where
he
always
sat
.
Shoving
her
sword
through
her
belt
,
she
slipped
down
branch
to
branch
until
she
was
back
on
the
ground
.
The
light
of
the
moon
painted
the
limbs
of
the
weirwood
silvery
-
white
as
she
made
her
way
toward
it
,
but
the
five
-
pointed
red
leaves
turned
black
by
night
.
Arya
stared
at
the
face
carved
into
its
trunk
.
It
was
a
terrible
face
,
its
mouth
twisted
,
its
eyes
flaring
and
full
of
hate
.
Is
that
what
a
god
looked
like
?
Could
gods
be
hurt
,
the
same
as
people
?
I
should
pray
,
she
thought
suddenly
.
Arya
went
to
her
knees
.
She
wasn
’
t
sure
how
she
should
begin
.
She
clasped
her
hands
together
.
Help
me
,
you
old
gods
,
she
prayed
silently
.
Help
me
get
those
men
out
of
the
dungeon
so
we
can
kill
Ser
Amory
,
and
bring
me
home
to
Winterfell
.
Make
me
a
water
dancer
and
a
wolf
and
not
afraid
again
,
ever
.
Was
that
enough
?
Maybe
she
should
pray
aloud
if
she
wanted
the
old
gods
to
hear
.
Maybe
she
should
pray
longer
.
Sometimes
her
father
had
prayed
a
long
time
,
she
remembered
.
But
the
old
gods
had
never
helped
him
.
Remembering
that
made
her
angry
.
"
You
should
have
saved
him
,
"
she
scolded
the
tree
.
"
He
prayed
to
you
all
the
time
.
I
don
’
t
care
if
you
help
me
or
not
.
I
don
’
t
think
you
could
even
if
you
wanted
to
.
"
"
Gods
are
not
mocked
,
girl
.
"
