I own nothing. This story uses the wonderful characters of GRRM's ASoIaF, however I wanted to write and delve more into the character's feelings throughout the events following the Battle of Winterfell, something that I don't believe the show had time to do. No disrespect to GoT's writers. I love these character so much and have invested a lot of time reading ASoIaF and watching GoT like you have. My heart has been sated reading the fan fics that have cropped up during season 8 and I wanted to add my perspective. I needed some closure after the end game. I may even change the ending for myself as I found it so bittersweet. Anyway I'm going to pipe down! I have loved reading your stories, you guys have inspired this.
Arya
Arya looked up at the ceiling staring unseeingly at the folds of grey fabric on the canopy from her position on the bed; chanting her list over and over as if a witch's incantation.
"Cersei, Ilyn Payne, The Mountain… Cersei, Ilyn Payne, The Mountain."
The remaining few persons on her originally lengthy list had been all she could think about since the massacre of the Long Night. All around her celebration rang throughout the halls of Winterfell, festivities lasting long into the early hours, raucous sounds of parties, drinking, sex and music filled the day and night air, celebrations of life after the onslaught of death, but Arya could not bring herself to join them. She had never been one for parties, formalities and crowds, preferring the comfort of her own company since she had been a child skulking around the hidden passages of the castle.
However this time, she hid away in the solitude of her chambers, focussing on her list, letting it occupy her mind, her body, and all of her energy.
There would be time for celebrating later, once the golden head bitch who had been responsible for her father's head had paid with her life.
"Cersei, Ilyn Payne, The Mountain, Cers…." she stopped, a rush of inspiration came to her like a lightning bolt to her brain. What am I still doing here? I need to strike now whilst the Iron is hot!
I'm going to kill the Queen.
She sprung off the mattress, changed into a new tunic, her excited fingers fumbling over the buttons, snatched up her travelling cloak and darted from the room, never giving her childhood quarters a backwards glance.
Silently as a shadow, she crept along the corridor that housed the private chambers of the Stark family. She had no doubt that they'd all be drinking in the merriment of the feast down in the Great Hall, but she did not want to risk being caught, dressed as she was, as she knew that it would incite many questions and potentially put a stopper in her plans. The braziers that lined the corridors of her home provided much warmth from the ensuing snow storm outside; Arya enjoyed the heat they gave off, wary of her shadows dancing along the cold stone walls of the castle, but thankful for the last bit of heat she would feel for some time. Although, the North was free of the threat beyond the wall, she knew that lighting fires in the wilderness was not wise as the forests and roads that led South were teaming with rapers, thieves and ne'er-do-wells.
Once she had made it to kitchens, she gathered up as many provisions as she could find for the journey and hastily shoved them into her heavy pack before bolting for the heavy wooden door shielding her from the bitter winter's night.
She huddled under her cloak, burying her nose into the furs for warmth, allowing the hood to obscure her face. She did not wish to be spotted as she hurried towards the stable in the freshly fallen powdery snow.
Her heart did a somersault when she walked past the forge. She didn't know if he'd be in there, but something told her that it was likely considering how things had ended between them earlier that evening. The Dragon Queen had made him the heir to the Storm-lands, and he was officially Lord Gendry Baratheon. The first thing he had done since staring awkwardly at the dais not knowing whether to be happy about this or not was to run and find Arya and tell her the 'good news.'
The way he had looked at her with his hopeful azure eyes peaking out from under his charcoal hair still made her stomach flip but her wistful glance soon turned into a scowl, scrunching her nose up in annoyance at the stupid way he had ruined the moment by proposing to her. He had thought rightly that he needed a bride to help him rule Storm's End, but what had he been thinking asking Arya to be his lady?
Did he think that his new title and lands would be enough to change her mind? After all this time, did he even know her at all?
She had never cared for a fancy lord or a fancy home, she never played knights and ladies, only attended her embroidery classes by force from her mother, avoided her sister Sansa and always dreamt of riding off to battle with her brothers rather than waiting at home for a husband. It just isn't me, she thought, although a pang of sadness twinged in her gut as she strode past the forge, hearing the faint sounds of something heavy hitting the anvil. He had always taken his emotions out on the metal. Arya thought it would be very therapeutic to hit something really hard right now too, although for her it would be the face of her stupid bull headed boy. She continued in her stride, plodding on towards the stable, tacked her own horse and was readying herself to open the stable door when a familiar voice echoed in the soft light of the braziers.
"Where do you think you're going?"