If I Want To

Arya

"The Titans' eyes would burn as if his eyes were a pit that had been set aflame by a lit torch."

Arya shifted her body towards Sansa, as Old Nan's words caused the shadows beyond the candle's reach to grow larger.

"And when he moved, the shadow that he cast would bring about a darkness as terrifying as the long night. The groans of the rocks that formed his body blended with the moans and cries of his victims before he smashed them into the ground, leaving nothing more than a deep trench with bloody flesh buried at the bottom."

Arya didn't even mind when Sansa huddled closer until the two of them were pressed together. Their previous disagreements made no matter as they sought courage from one another.

It was only her, Sansa, and Bran still up, tucked together with wide eyes and bated breath as they listened to the legend of the Titan of Braavos. Baby Rickon was fast asleep, and everyone else had drifted off to settle down for the night, or engage in other activities.

Old Nan's ancient voice sounded through the room: "And the Titan would feast, his teeth gnashing and his lips smacking, on the pretty pink flesh of highborn little girls."

Sansa let out a squeak and wrapped the fur tighter around her body.

"If I ever go to Braavos, I would fight the Titan off," Arya declared bravely.

"The Titan might be from Braavos, but Maester Luwin said that the Titan is also the sigil for the Fingers. Only its stone face, though," offered Bran.

Beside her, Sansa let out a shudder, and Arya patted her shoulder comfortingly. "I don't like this story," Sansa whispered.

As the voices hushed, and the click click click of Old Nan's needles quietly filled the silence, the children took time to catch their breaths before feeling brave enough to make more requests.

"Can you tell us again about Jonquil and Florian?" Sansa pleaded, her voice soft as a sigh.

"Tell us about the Dance of Dragons," Bran begged, already eager as he always was to hear the stories of the Dragonknights of old. He knew the tales well, they sounded sweetly in his ears like the tragic lyrics of a well written song.

"No! I want to hear about Queen Nymeria and her ten thousand ships!" Arya looked as fierce as the warrior queen herself as she scowled at Bran's mumbled protest.

"She's a witch. I don't want to hear about some old witch queen," he grumbled.

"No she's not!" Arya protested crossly. "She was as brave and fierce as any dragon prince. She led her warriors across the narrow sea. Under her guidance they went into battle and won. She conquered Dorne all by herself."

"Nu-uh. Her warriors did," argued Bran.

"I think we have time to hear all of your favorite stories," Old Nan's croaky voice broke through the arguing. "Old stories are like old friends. You have to visit them from time to time."

Arya settled back down as her attention returned to Old Nan. The old woman was propped up in an oversized chair, her hands moving unhurriedly as she kept pace with the needlework in her lap.

"It helps keep her mind from going simple," Sansa had whispered to Arya once.

Old Nan looked older than the castle itself. Every visible part of her was covered in wrinkles, and her body was shrunken. Sometimes Arya worried that she would keep shrinking until she simply disappeared. She was toothless, and although she had eyes, they were nearly useless, pale and covered with a thin layer of film. Her remaining white wisps of hair gleamed in the candle light, her pink scalp shone red under the soft glow, but she told the best stories, and plenty of Arya's fondest adventures were born under the magic of Nan's tales.

Old Nan launched into a retelling of the stories that the children had heard a thousand times, but still listened to eagerly as if it were the first time.

Arya's brows were furrowed together as she listened to Old Nan's words.

Sansa's face took on a look of haunting beauty. Her blue eyes filled with tears of liquid crystal as they spilled down her porclean cheeks.

When the room fell silent, Sansa let out a sigh. "It's just so sad," she said, her voice mournful and sweet. "Handsome Prince Aemon with his moonlight hair, crying when he was forced to watch his own brother marry his fair maiden, the Princess Naerys. . . And the twins, Ser Arryk and Ser Erryk, to think that they cried as they fought each other and died. . ." Sansa's bottom lip trembled delicately and more tears spilled down her pale cheeks.

Arya rolled her eyes as she pushed herself to her feet. "They shouldn't have fought each other," she said. "They should have protected one another. Like a wolf pack." She turned and left the room.

As she made her way down the darkened hall, Arya wished for the companionable presence of her wolf, but Nymeria was waiting in her bedchamber, mayhap already fast asleep.

It wasn't that she feared the dark, not really, the crypts were dark too and she liked it just fine— to her, the darkened familiar halls of the Great Keep felt more like a comfortable blanket pressing down on her, than an unknown presence that harbored monsters and creatures from Old Nan's stories —but Arya longed for Nymeria's warm fur and glowing yellow eyes all the same.

A big yawn escaped her as she opened the door to her chamber, but a tired smile broke across her face at the sight of the direwolf curled up on the fur, taking up the space at the foot of her bed.

Arya made her way to her bed and carefully rubbed her hand down the wolf's grey and white fur so as not to disturb it. She bent her head close to its ears, her head filled with tales of Nymeria of the Rhoyne.

"You were named after the fiercest queen that ever lived. And one day, you and I will ride into battle and defeat our foes. We might even conquer our own land," she whispered, imagining fighting like a warrior with her wolf by her side, eyes as yellow and bright as a Dornish sun on the hottest of days.

Nymeria didn't provide a response, and Arya wrapped one arm around her wolf, curling her body around it before falling asleep.