Arya is alone.
It is uncomfortable, this solitude, for in all her life Arya Stark has never once been lonely. There was always someone—Robb, who liked to tease his little sister; Jon, who gave her Needle, who loved her; Sansa, boring and useless as she was.
But now she is alone.
She wishes Jon were with her, but Jon is at the Wall. Mycah, Bran, Nymeria, even Sansa would do. But all she's got left is Needle, and what good will it do her if she's got nobody to fight and nobody left to fight for? She shouldn't have listened to Yoren—she should have fought, killed, died, done something instead of hiding like a craven in the rafters of the barn. Bitterly, Arya kicks at the matted hay that rots on the ground.
Something stirs.
At first, Arya is frightened. What if it is Gendry's ghost, come back to haunt her? She was practically complicit in his murder, Arya thinks, panicked—she didn't do anything to stop it, and that's bad enough. She fingers Needle gingerly, ready to pull it from its scabbard, should the need arise. Calm as still water.
She sees it now, or at least its outline—a small mound, the size of a meat pie (oh, she is so hungry), just a few yards away. Arya considers running, but she has had enough of cowardice. She is a direwolf, not a craven.
Unsheathing Needle, Arya slinks carefully, quietly towards what she can only hope is some poor, dying raven, felled by a stray arrow loosed during last night's battle.
It mewls, sputters, and falls silent. Sodden hay shifts, and suddenly the gentle light of early morning catches and illuminates a translucent, featherless wing.
Arya Stark has found a dragon.