The lost child of Winterfell. The Starks were scattered but accounted for, dead or trapped or freezing to death at the wall - every Stark, but her. The forgotten sister, young and wild, resembling her father and bastard brother more than her lady mother. With hair chopped short and dirt on her skin, she was a thousand servant girls, slipping in and out of names, moving quiet as a shadow. Brave and silent, deadly and vengeful, the one Stark to slip through the fingers of a kingdom. She ran and toiled and ate with the enemy in the summer, but winter lived in her and her heart remained hard. She relented her dignity, her name, but she never forgave, and she never forgot. The list of names became her only possession, repeated to herself quietly in the night, a mantra, a bedtime story for a forgotten child. But Arya Stark of Winterfell was a child no longer, and the names burned in her blood, a reminder, a war cry for the wolves to finally return.