Each sentence started the same, every time she wrote him. It wasn't that she couldn't find words, there where just too many words to utter. What was she going to say to a man she left behind in her past 15 years ago?
The ink colored her pale cold fingertips blue as she stroked over the words:
"I´m sorry"
Those words where the hardest to get out, in the poorly lit room with the one shot of freedom hanging by a string this was the time to speak for truth. Looking out the window she saw the tree that was hanging low on its own, then at the town square at the hanging man.
She had to do this; it would be her last time to get her heart´s wishes out.
The paper seemed empty when she was done, "I´m sorry"
Was that all she had to say to him?
Pushing the heavy paper away from herself she called over a guard, the man dressed up in a full tin suit came staggering over, he nodded his head when she passed him the paper.
Where the fuck do you send the letter? To his children?
He didn't have an address anymore after he left the north that one December.
The memories of those cold winter nights brought a pouring emotion to her eyes, she had shed tears, alone where nobody not even her dearly departed sister could spot her weakness.
They had build Winterfell together and then watched it burn down, all the same.
If she could go back she would ask him to stay, covered in ashes and tears, she would beg, plead, and even go down on her knees. But she was proud, a wolf after all, there where no words spoken when they rode each their own way back to the south.
Watching the guard shrivel the weak paper into his massive hands Arya prayed to the Gods of death that he would get it safely, that her words would resonate something in him and make him forgive her this one last time.
Going back to her window she drank her wine, counting the times the rope was felled off the hanging man, four, five, six, seven, eight…
Could she ever remember how many times Gendry had sat with her by the fire warming her hands and feet after a long day of work, how he always shared his bread with her, how many times he had broken off a piece of skin that fell dead off his raw bleeding hands.
All to make her a home.
If the Gods could hear her now, she bundled up at the small bunk bed and looked at the wall, the night could not come sooner and neither could what came next.
