calm as still water, swift as a deer

[The girl on the screen is older and taller, though not by much on either account: a few feet, a few inches. Her hair has been allowed to grow out, though it's pinned (messily) at the back of her head. She looks a little less like a child, a little more like the person she could grow into. The surroundings are different, though: gone is the cell from the House of Black and White, with its tiny bed and small chest for clothes. This is a bigger room, enough space for two girls to grow in and live in and fight in. It's the room she shared with Sansa in Winterfell, all old stone with furs on the bed.

She still chews her lip, though. She has a lot on her mind.]

I'm afraid.

[She doesn't sound it, even makes a face and looks a touch angry at saying it out loud. She doesn't like admitting it, she never has, but this feels important. Behind her, Nymeria lounges on the bed, huge and daunting. She is older, bigger, too.]

Not scared - maybe I was the whole time. I hated feeling like a scared little girl, so I stopped. I stopped everything but anger. Anything else hurt.

[She reaches up and touches her chest.] I had a hole, here, after my family died. I didn't think it'd ever heal, so - I stuffed it with other things, till it scabbed over. Anger, and revenge.

[She rubs the spot over her heart, then drops her hand again, tugging at the edge of her shirt.]

But I'm not so angry, anymore. I have pictures, of everyone, [and there is indeed a photo album sitting open behind her on the bed, near Nymeria's paws] and I realized I was forgetting what they looked like. But I remember what all the Lannisters look like. I remember every stupid golden hair. But I don't remember what Rickon looked like. He was only three. Or four - I don't remember anymore.

[Chewing on her lip again, Arya leans back and grabs the photo album, dragging it into her lap. These were gifts, from Christmases past, things she never asked for, never wanted, but needed very badly. She pulls out one picture, holds it up for the camera except pretend he looks younger.]

This is him.

[She gives it a moment, then tucks it away, and closes up the album beside her.] I don't have any pictures of the people who killed him. I don't want any. I think - I'd rather remember what my brother looked like, than the person who killed him.