"A man does not choose his companions in black cells,” the handsome one with the red-and-white hair said. Something about the way he talked reminded her of Syrio; it was the same, yet different too. “These two, they have no courtesy. A man must ask forgiveness. You are called Arry, is that not so?”
“It’s just a stupid sword”, she said, aloud this time… but it wasn’t.
Needle was Robb and Bran and Rickon, her mother and her father, even Sansa. Needle was Winterfell’s grey walls, and the laughter of its people. Needle was the summer snows, Old Nan’s stories, the heart tree with its red leaves and scary face, the warm earthy smell of the glass gardens, the sound of the north wind rattling the shutters of her room. Needle was Jon Snow’s smile.
“I wish I was home”, She said miserably. She tried so hard to be brave, to be fierce as a wolverine and all, but some times she felt she was a little girl after all.”
inspired by this faith of the seven post, arya as the stranger - i wanted to do this kind of like a tarot card with alphonse mucha feelings but i got lazy with the details wehh
i might do the others idk~~
the same blood flows through both your hearts
Needle glinted as she drew it. She turned her body sideways in a water dancer’s stance without even thinking about it. Dead leaves crunched beneath her feet. Quick as a snake, she thought. Smooth as summer silk.
I know this is stupid but I’ve always thought it was weirdly endearing how Sansa names one of her primary defenses—her ladylike courtesy—after something as traditionally masculine as armor, while Arya agrees to name her actual dangerous weapon after something as stereotypically feminine as a sewing needle.
Not Arya, not Weasel, not Nan nor Arry nor Squab, not even Lumpyhead. She was only some girl who ran with a dog by day, and dreamed of wolves by night.