Chapter 31: No One

The days passed without rain, and the fires continued to burn. Arya's body felt sore as she held onto the white mare for support. She was exhausted. The land seemed to stretch on forever before her. A haunted landscape of fire, smoke and ash stretched out before the night wolf, and she rode slowly across it surveying the devastation with red rimmed eyes. Carefully the horse stepped along the scorched path, and Arya braced her back against the searing smoke filled winds. The land around her was barren and scorched. This was a land that had once been beautiful.

A younger, more innocent Arya Stark had travelled this road with her father, as he went South the first time. She had curled her small body up in the grass underneath his cloak as they slept beneath a blanket of stars. There had been towns dotted with houses, and smallfolk fishing in the streams. The land that had once been verdant and green was now a bed of charcoal and ash. The air that had once been fresh, and cool and crisp was now thick with the smell of smoke, the smell of decay, and of fire and of burning. Arya's heart thudded heavily in her chest as she lay her body flat against the white mare and the Inn at the Crossroads came into view. As she stared off into the distant blue sky the clouds of black smoke stood out against them in stark relief. She remembered the eyes of the blacksmith. She remembered the inky black hair and sad blue eyes that she had left behind in Winterfell. "I could be your family." The words that she had spoken to Gendry once, and still they echoed inside her head. He had left her then. She had closed up her heart in anger. But this time, she was the one to leave.

She had wanted vengeance. She had gone out in search of it. But all that she got was fire. All that she heard as she stared into the black of the sky at night were the screams of the dying. All that she felt, as she remembered her flight from the capitol, was the heat, the searing pain, and the exhaustion. She had watched as the fire destroyed everything that it touched. She had seen the blood of her countrymen spilling into the streets. Northmen . Northmen who had willingly followed the Dragon Queen into war. Northmen who had pledged themselves to fight alongside her brother, Jon Snow, and to pay a debt. They had gone all the way South to honor a debt to this foriegn queen. She had, despite this recent change of events, been a great help to the North. Sansa would not admit this. She would be even more loathe to admit it now, now that she had turned out to be as mad as the Mad King. Arya knew within her heart that without the dragons, the fight against the Others would have been even more insurmountable. It was only because of the Dragon Queen, and only because she had brought her dragons North to help free them from the icy grip of death that these brave men had agreed to die in her service. They died in a place far from their homes. They had fled from the icy jaws of one death and into the gaping fiery mouth of another form of destruction.

The roads were completely desolate. She did not see one other person as she journeyed towards the inn. The small folks hid in what was left of their homes. The small folks, she knew, only wanted it all to stop. They had been plagued by nothing but war ever since King Joffrey had taken her Lord Father's head. She hoped that the people of Westeros knew what had been given for even this slight moment of peace. The war was, effectively, over. But at what cost? The fire had taken everything. Cersei no longer ruled. But the Queen who would take her place, had gone mad with vengeance. It was a vengeance Arya understood all too well. She wondered what she would have done, if she too had a dragon at her disposal. She could still see Drogon hovering above the city. She remembered the searing heat as the flames rained down from the sky. It had been like a punishment from the gods. The huge black dragon darted in and out of sight behind the cover of clouds, with the tiny white haired Queen on its back as the people below scurried like mice. The fire was indiscriminate. The Queen was blinded by rage. The fire and her rage ripped and tore through every living thing in their path. Arya had fled for her life. She had run through the ruined city covered in ash, sticky with her own blood, and breathing in the charred bones and ashes of the good people of King's Landing. She fled as far as she could on foot before the pale horse appeared before her almost like a gift from the Stranger himself. She had served the stranger well. Valar dohaeris.

After she fled through the city gates, she rode for days. She rode towards home, towards Sansa. Towards Winterfell. It was a long journey away. Presently, she was nearing the Inn at the Crossroads, and she hoped that she would be able to stop and rest. She hoped to find a familiar face, a bed, and a place to water her horse.

As she plodded along slowly on the road to Winterfell, she watched the billows of smoke and ash rise against the wind as they travelled North with her. All along the road the burned bodies of the dead lay in crumpled, festering heaps as the crows picked at their flesh. Flocks of ravens shrieked and cawed, and pecked and gorged-the sound of it haunted her dreams. The smell of death was heavy in the air, and Arya longed for the cool air of the North. She longed for the snow. She longed to smell the pine needles, and the smoke of the hearth. She longed to be home. Vengeance had carried her far, but it could only carry her so far. Her vengeance had turned to ash, just as the city had done. Vengeance belongs to the gods, not men , she thought as she neared the Inn. The sun was beginning to set over the white stone walls, and just as she reached the stable, she heard a lone wolf howl in the distance.

She dismounted from her horse, and tied her up near the stables. She walked gingerly towards the inn, and opened the door. Inside, it was almost as desolate as the road had been. A few drunken men sat in the corner in a huddled mass. They were so deep in their cups that they had fallen asleep. Arya walked over towards the blazing fire in the hearth. She saw a familiar face coming towards her. Hot Pie.

She probably looked half dead. "Arry!" He exclaimed. As he looked at her, she saw his eyes widen in horror.

He grabbed a platter and motioned for her to sit at one of the empty benches.

"What happened to you?" He asked.

"Have you got a bed?" She said, and she pulled out a pouch filled fat with coins.

Hot Pie put his hand on top of hers protectively, "I told ya Arry... friends don't pay."