## Chapter One [A Girl]
She wanted to be with him but she cannot, for he is unreachable, impossible. He is no one. She did not know why she desired to be by his side. She simply feels the pull of want that threatened to consumed her should she dare ignore it. She wished to be with him in every single ways possible. She felt emotions for him far more deeply than she ever felt for any man or woman, saved her family. But he isn't her family. He is no one.
Ever since her first encounter with him, the boy "Arry" felt a strangeness of the mysterious man something of a curiosity. He approached her, in her disguise that fooled many men, some murders, some boys all heading to accept the black, as if he'd seen through her at the very first glance. Yet he spoke, "a boy" and "lovely boy", as if he had not know of her very person at that moment.
He intrigued her, despite her position, scrawling in mud amongst men hiding from far heavier cruelty that is the King's Landing and those who dwelled it like a desperate rat, he intrigued her. His dark eyes haunted her nights after nights, while they bore unspoken promises during her days, stealing glances from the cage of barred men. He felt dangerous, but Arya Stark does not cower with fear of wolves, and especially not of a man.
When she saw his red hair illuminated with the red that consumed him and his cell mate, she did what she would, a girl of more courage than senses, and doused them in the river water. She'd saved him, as she shouldn't, she should have stayed away and recall good nights in Winterfell, staying out of trouble solely for the purpose of going home. But she cannot, for she is Arya of house Stark, the she-wolf of Winterfell. He looked at her with pleased-surprised face, then mirth, as she heaved heavily before turning on her heels and ran as fast as she could. *A monster he maybe*, she thought as the shuddered at the torment that could come upon him, should she be too late.
When he promised her three names in Harrenhal she could not conceal the skepticism from spearing through her face. She tried anyways, a name, the torturer. She was frustrated but without much hope of the man actually dying from her whim, but he did. There he was, dead at her feet, and there *he* was, above her, giving her his half smirk that sent chills of something akin to fear through her body. She didn't know why, but she doesn't hate the way it fills her with goose flesh and rendered her bone soft.
Another name went by, and she was more urgent in its exact timing. She felt power when he followed her order, some semblance of home, a power of lordship through blood. But it isn't so, soon she realized she had played with hellfire as she saw the burn of anger through the man's eye after she named him, throwing a highborn girl's tantrum after not getting what she wanted, Tywin Lannister. Her spirit cowered as he begged her to unnamed him, he spoke softly, slowly. She felt as if she was strangled by an unknown force so powerful she struggled to breath. And when she let out her breath, she unnamed him, or so he thought. Soon as he let go of her with his invisible grasps on her neck, she cleverly outdone him again. Fear and courage fought within her, as wavering emotions shone through her large storm-like eyes. He held her gaze for another moment, and she thought he would have murdered her instead, but he did not.
That night, he killed for her again. She was both thrilled and terrified. A child of chaos she is.