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"Wait." A hoarse voice, weathered from the storm of a thousand storms, cracks along the center of the hall towards Arya. Arya's head snaps, her eyes widening, as the grip of her blade against Walder's neck tightens.
The half-visible woman, clothed in a dark gown of wrapped rags, jacket and cloak, trails the path her voice takes. She views the remnants of the earlier feast, the tall candles much shorter in pools of wax around them.
"Why--would you spare him?"
"I wouldn't," the woman says. In the shadow of her hood, a ragged auburn braid curves around the right side of the woman's ashen neck, covering a long angry scar. The hall doors open, and a half growl turned roar comes at the woman followed by wide strides of direwolf paw and fir.
The direwolf stops at the woman, and she reaches out to stroke his fir. His large white fir is trimmed in shades of brown and grey.
"Easy, Ned, easy." From the crown of his head downward, the direwolf calms with each stroke, as Walder's sneer grows bolder.
"A northern bitch and her mangy pup," he says. Arya's focus shifts, her knife causing a small tear against Walder's stubble where the slit should already be.
"Sweetling." The woman's voice softens, as her strokes on the direwolf slow. Her hand rests between his ears. "There's a better way to make this insolent waste suffer."
A pause.
Arya snaps her knife away, plunging the small blade into the center of Walder's right hand with a twist. Walder groans, as blood trickles towards the table.
She pulls the knife out quick, and plunges it again. The second twist is much harder, as Arya's hand lingers on the pommel, and she sneers. Walder gasps when she leaves the knife in, and walks towards the woman.
Arya's head tilts.
"Show me," Arya says, and a crooked smirk appears on the woman's lips. Without her eyes moving from looking at Arya, the woman releases her hold on the direwolf, who lunges forward with a loud growl. Arya hears Walder's cries before she turns in time to see the direwolf's attack.
The direwolf knocks Walder from his chair, and the man does little to defend himself. For several moments, there is nothing but grizzled sounds of teeth against flesh. The woman doesn't wait to see the end before moving back towards the door.
Arya doesn't follow, her eyes still focused on the sight in front of her. Walder lay in a bloody crumpled heap before the direwolf, his fir spattered in blood, lifts his head. Arya turns, and follows the woman outside.
The night air feels lighter, though not any less dank or moldy. Arya closes her eyes, and inhales. Her eyes open to the woman talking ahead, and the strange aura surrounding her.
Even without his trademark gold locks, she recognizes the ornate lion chestplate without hesitation. Jaime's listening to the woman with rather care before his head bows at the woman's words.
"An equitable arrangement, ser," the woman says.
"For us both, my lady," Jaime says. As his head lifts, he sees Arya and the direwolf. His weary eyes narrow, and he sighs before turning away.
There are more questions than answers, and Arya heads towards the woman, who walks towards her ragtag group of men. The direwolf doesn't move, tilting his head with Arya's bloody knife between his teeth.
"Well, come on--" Arya says, snatching the knife from between the direwolf's canines, and wipes it across one leg before sheathing it. She reaches the small tent, where the woman's voice can be heard in lower dulcet tones.
Arya closes her eyes, and inhales. The familiarity of the woman isn't where she thinks it should be, and her heart twinges.
"What now, m'lady?" One of her men ask, and Arya's eyes open.
"Now, we rest," the woman says.
Arya steps into the entryway of the tent, her shoulders slumping. She sees the woman nod to the man, who excuses himself. There's a long pause before Arya feels a nudge at the back of her knees.
"Oy," Arya says. The direwolf sits at her feet, but stares at her. He nudges her again. There's a glint in the direwolf's eyes Arya hasn't noticed before. Arya takes a small sigh.
Her feet carry her forward even before her mind registers the footsteps.
This woman may look, sound, and even smell faintly like her mother, but Arya knows the days of her true mother are gone.
She feels closer to Catelyn than ever.