YES! Arya thought, swept up in the first clash between the Dragon's army and her own, she is giving us an honourable death. Maybe she's not such a bitch after all.
Arya's blood ran red hot in her veins as she fought and killed one man after the other, the memory of Bran impeding her vision, the thought of Robb and Rickon forcing its way into her mind each time she caught sight of the flames that still burned, high as castle walls, across the field of fire. Had the dragonfire been hot enough to give them a quick death? Had they suffered?
Perhaps not, hope sang to her.
There's no worse way to die, stupid, experience spat in response.
All of them dead. Father, Robb, Bran, Rickon. Her heart hunted in the darkness for Jon, far away on the Wall. He hadn't come. His commanders had probably caught him trying to desert. It was the kind of thing he would do.
The women in the Keep were singing.
'Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray…'
'I wish I could come with you and fight,' Sansa had said as she bade her farewell.
Arya had been flabbergasted.
'The women and children of Winterfell need you and Mother,' Arya had replied, 'they need someone brave to help them. Plus, you've never swung a sword in your life, you stupid.'
Sansa had laughed at that. Arya had put one hand on Sansa's shoulder.
'Sister, if anything happens to me –'
'Arya, don't talk that way –'
'– and if something also happens to Jaime –'
'I'm not listening!'
'– don't let Tywin have my children. Promise me. Don't let him have them. Raise them with yours. Bring them up Northern. Let them be who they want. Promise me.'
Sansa was crying, so Arya embraced her, feeling ridiculous, as she always did, next to her tall and beautiful sister.
'Promise me,' Arya said.
Sansa sniffed loudly and wiped her eyes.
'I swear it by the old gods and the new.'
Arya drove her sword into the throat of an Unsullied, his blood spraying across her breastplate, the direwolf upon it lapping the blood of her prey from its jaws.
Her children. Tyrion and Visenya. The strange, golden beings that she and Jaime had made together. Did they think she had betrayed them as well as the Queen?
I should have written them a letter, Arya thought, I should have explained.
Or I should have been less selfish. I should have chosen them. All I've shown them is that what I want is more important that what they need. I should have been a mother. I should have been a wife.
As the thought occurred to her, she spotted Jaime, not ten feet away from her, his crimson and gold enameled armour bloodstained, but with barely a scratch on it. She smiled. Some things never changed.
When he recognised her, he reversed his sword in his hand, the blade clutched in his gauntlet, the pommel pointing upwards.
Arya seethed with fury. He meant to knock her out and hide her till the fighting was done.
Think again, Lannister. You'll have to kill me first.
Through the sea of spears, raised swords and lances, Arya saw that a rider was approaching Jaime from the left. For a moment, she remained unconcerned. Jaime could take him. But her husband did not seem to notice him, the terrible green eyes in the slit of his visor trained on her, and only her.
Arya spurred her horse towards him, gesticulating wildly.
'Jaime! JAIME!'
Why wasn't he looking?
The rider was almost upon him now, and Jaime still seemed blissfully ignorant of his existence, riding closer towards him. She was screaming obscenities and warnings and nothings, but Jaime kept on riding.
Does the fool think I'm trying to distract him?
Arya saw the rider raise his spear and arm, her husband paying her screams no heed. She stood up in her stirrups and braced herself, praying that she still knew how to do this, remembering Syrio's words to her a lifetime ago.
'There is only one God, and his name is Death.'
And she threw herself out of the saddle, into the path of the spear.