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Arya Stark pov (12 years old):

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I sat behind my father on the horse, a well-worn saddle cushioning my small frame. The sturdy horse carried us into the town as the golden sunset cast a warm glow over everything. The aroma of the city filled the air, a mix of unfamiliar spices, horse dung, and cooking fires. Beside me, my trusty wolf Nymeria trotted gracefully, her fur gleaming in the fading light.

As we entered Lord Harroway's town, I couldn't help but admire the quaint architecture, buildings with peaked roofs and wooden beams, a stark contrast to the grandeur of Winterfell or the Capital.

We had been marching for over ten hours, and the sight of the Trident River at the city's border was nice to see. The peaceful waters flowed gently, a reassuring presence as our small caravan approached.

The town's buildings stood shoulder to shoulder, their colorful facades and bustling marketplaces a stark contrast to the barren Riverlands countryside.

The townspeople lined the streets, a happy mob ready to burst into celebrations as they watched us. They cheered and waved, their faces filled with excitement. The mood was infectious, and I felt relaxed and safe near my father and my wolf, who stayed close by.

I decided that I quite liked this small town...

My gaze shifted from the jubilant crowd to the golden-haired youth leading our small caravan – Joffrey. Each time I looked at him, I couldn't help but feel awe at the gentle grace he exuded while walking among the common people. His closed eyes lent an air of wisdom as he strolled, seemingly part of the townsfolk. He wore simple clothes that seemed to enhance his charm, and his smile radiated warmth.

But just as I admired his gentleness, I remembered the tourney in Winterfell a few months ago, where he had transformed from a gentle prince into a bloodthirsty beast in the blink of an eye. It was a reminder that beneath his charming exterior, a different, more ruthless side lay in wait.

"Freaking awesome..." I mumbled under my breath, uncaring that Father might hear me.

He didn't, or at least, he pretended not to hear, but as we continued marching towards the river, (much to the confusion of the townsfolk), he suddenly started talking to me.

And as he turned his head towards me, and I caught a glimpse of his amused smile, I knew that I was about to get teased...

"Arya, my fierce little warrior, you look like you're about to burst with excitement. Are you sure you're not secretly a Targaryen, waiting to hatch a dragon from all that energy?"

I felt my cheeks instantly turn rosy...

'Was I really trembling that much?' I wondered, but then rolled my eyes at him and responded, "Father, dragons are cool and all, but direwolves are way more awesome..."

'No lizard could even dream of being as cool as Nymeria!' I thought inwardly but didn't voice out my thoughts. Me and Teacher Syrio had been arguing about this fact ever since leaving the capital, and I didn't want to spark another debate...

'And dragons are extinct anyways...'

As I continued watching Joffrey, that lingering thought faded into the recesses of my mind. I couldn't help but reminisce about how different life had been before I met him.

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I used to feel the weight of expectations pressing down on my small shoulders, the same expectations that had burdened me for as long as I could remember.

I was Arya Stark of Winterfell...and it was my birthright to become a lady, to marry for influence and power, just like Sansa was groomed to do.

But I 𝗿𝗲𝗷𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗲𝗱 that notion with every fiber of my being. I didn't want to follow the path laid out for me by society, to fit into this mold that didn't feel like my own. I believed in something different, something more. I believed in forging my destiny, not having it dictated to me.

It was in the moments when I was alone, away from Septa's watchful eye, that I could truly be myself. Those moments were few and far between, but they were my refuge. My fascination with warfare and the art of battle set me apart from the other girls in Winterfell. I longed for the thrill of training in the use of arms, for the sound of clashing swords and the adrenaline that surged through my veins. It was a far cry from the embroidery and other "lady-like" pursuits that filled my days.

Sansa, my dear sister, excelled at that dogshit (as Jon called it). Her stitches were praised by Septa, and it seemed she was the embodiment of everything a lady should be...We couldn't have been more different, and our contrasting interests and personalities only fueled the resentment that smoldered between us.

My brothers had their own interests, and I used to watch them with a mix of envy and longing. Bran, Jon, and Robb practiced archery in the courtyard with Father, their skill with the bow growing with every shot. I yearned to join them, to feel the satisfying release of the string, the twang of the bow, and the thud of the arrow hitting its mark. But that was a privilege I was denied because of my damned gender.

My closest confidant was Jon, my "half-brother" by the world's standards, though I had never thought of him as anything other than my true brother.

He was an outsider too, just like me. Our bond was strong, built on shared experiences and the understanding that we were different from the others...

The world expected me to learn how to sew, to become a proper lady. But the mere thought of it filled me with dread. Mordane tried her best to teach me, but the exercises were tedious, boring and annoying.

I used to be the wild one, the one who longed for the taste of freedom beyond the castle walls. I would watch from a distance as my brothers practiced, wishing everyday I could join them...But I knew that my place was with Septa, attempting to create something that would never match my sister's skill...

In the end, I accepted that I was the odd one out.

What was the alternative, after all?

I was Arya Stark, the girl who would never be a proper lady, who would never be content with the life that society had laid out for me.

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And as I stared out of my window, I vowed everyday to never stop fighting for the freedom to be myself, no matter the expectations of others...and then that fateful day arrived, when King Robert reached Winterfell...and my life turned around completely, becoming akin to a fairly tale...

And it was all because of the King's son. A boy who looked like a weakling, but turned out to be the complete opposite...

I still remembered seeing him bloody and bruised in Winterfell's arena, but unbowed and unbroken nonetheless...

He was like a character from the stories Old Nan used to tell, moving with grace and precision. And with time, he only seemed to become more extraordinary.

He hadn't given two shits about that fact that I was a girl and if him offering to have Barristan Selmy himself give me swordsmanship pointers didn't already cement him as my fifth favourite person, the words he told me one day as we traveled towards the capital certainly did...

"You can do anything you desire in this multiverse...or you can at least die trying...No dream or goal is too lofty to be chased, and anyone who says otherwise is either blind or a liar..."

Those words...she kept on hearing those words, (even though she didn't know what a ,,multiverse,, was) every time she remembered her mother or Septa telling her what she was supposed to do with her life...and it all seemed so simple, looking back...so unimportant...

The funny thing was that Joffrey didn't even tell her those words specifically. She just happened to hear him talking to himself as he trained like a madman back when they marched towards the capital...

'Heh , this is so stupid...' I thought as I remembered how I almost went catatonic for a bit as those words etched themselves into my psyche...𝗻𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗴𝗼𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻...

Compared to that, the revelation that Joffrey was actually the God's chosen didn't even register all that clearly.

The only thought she remembered having as she watched the iron throne turn into a statue was 'Oooooh, preeety' after all.

In her defense, she was half asleep back then from the training regimen her sword teacher put her through the day before.

'Damn you Syrio...and damn that freaking cat...'

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We continued to make a beeline towards the river, getting closer with each step. Joffrey showed no signs of stopping, even as a fat man who seemed to be the town's ruler rushed to question his intentions. I raised an eyebrow at my father, who, sensing my confusion, only chuckled in response.

Joffrey continued to lead us, his steps determined and purposeful. His closed eyes gave him an air of serenity, a trait I envied.

My own thoughts were a whirlwind of excitement and curiosity, making me bounce slightly on the horse. I tried to contain my eagerness, but it was challenging.

We reached the edge of the town, and the sparkling waters of the Trident River came into full view. It was a breathtaking sight, and I marveled at the beauty of the setting sun casting a warm, golden hue over the water. It felt like a scene from the books old Nan used to read me and Bran when we were little.

The ruler of the town, a rotund man with a furrowed brow, was still attempting to question Joffrey, who didn't even glance at the man.

As we approached the river's edge, I couldn't take my eyes off Joffrey. The townspeople were watching with bated breath, and I felt a mixture of excitement and anticipation.

The town's ruler then inched closer and he extended his hand, attempting to prevent Joffrey from falling into the river. But as his fingers touched an invisible barrier, he recoiled in shock. The collective gasp from the onlookers filled the air.

Joffrey...continued forward...his steps defying nature itself...

He strode upon the water's surface with a confidence that left us all in awe...

Each step was a marvel, as he appeared to walk on solid ground, despite the river's shimmering surface.

We stood in silent disbelief, our eyes locked onto his every movement.

The town's ruler was left speechless, his mouth hanging agape. He muttered incoherently, struggling to comprehend the extraordinary sight before him. His astonishment mirrored our own, as we witnessed a miracle that defied explanation.

My father, watched with a knowing smile. He chuckled softly, already having guessed something like this would happen. But beneath his amusement, I detected a concealed sense of disbelief. This was something truly extraordinary.

I realized that my mouth was slightly ajar as well. I had seen the miracles Joffrey could perform, but this was completely bonkers...

The sight of a man walking on water sent shivers down my spine....

Joffrey's graceful steps carried him further onto the river's surface. He reached a suitable spot, pausing to face the astonished crowd. With an air of regal pride, he declared "By my presence and the wonders of the Seven, you are all blessed, beginning from this very day." His words resonated like a divine decree, filling the air with an undeniable sense of reverence.

The crowd's cheers swelled, echoing through the air, as if the whole town had erupted in jubilation. It was a triumphant symphony, a chorus of elation and astonishment.

Our small caravan, consisting of two majestic wolves, three sturdy horses, and a grand carriage, began to move seamlessly onto the river's surface. It was as if the water had transformed into solid ground, supporting our weight effortlessly.

The townsfolk watched in awe as we followed Joffrey's lead, stepping onto the water's surface without a hint of hesitation. Each step we took felt like a miracle, an act of defiance against the laws of the world.

The jubilant atmosphere spread like wildfire among the people, their joy and gratitude clearly visible in their beaming faces. It was a moment of shared wonder, a bond forged by witnessing the impossible.

Excitement surged within me, and I leaped down from my horse, landing on the water with a thrill. The sensation was surreal, like standing on solid ground but knowing it was anything but. I felt lighter than air, filled with a sense of exhilaration I'd never experienced before.

Beside me, Nymeria, my faithful companion, moved with grace and agility. Her silver coat glistened in the fading sunlight, and her amber eyes looked confusedly at her reflection in the water. I couldn't help but pet her a little bit. She was just too cute...

The golden light of the evening sun bathed the river in its warm embrace, and my heart swelled with excitement.

'This is so surreal...' I thought as I looked at the crowd that became smaller as the distance between us increased, and I barely kept my composure as I saw a few unlucky people who tried to imitate us and walk on water.

"Heh, serves them right" I whispered to my trusty wolf, and I could swear I heard a small *woof* of agreement...

And then we continued on... following the Blessed King on this surreal journey...and I couldn't keep myself from grinning widely.

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Third person pov:

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Within the labyrinth of human existence, the mind concocts complex narratives, a series of illusions built upon the brittle foundation of self-deception. These tales, intertwined with memory, emotion, and perception, serve as veils against the stark cruelty of reality.

As sentient beings, we are masters of deception, architects of grand narratives. We weave intricate stories about our significance, about the order we believe exists in the chaos. In this self-constructed fiction, we often anoint ourselves as heroes, the central characters in our elaborate sagas.

But here lies the sinister twist—our narratives, while comforting, are also the source of our greatest delusions. By embracing the fables we craft, we blind ourselves to the raw and unapologetic cruelty of the world. Through the thick curtains of our stories, we obscure the unfeeling and relentless nature of existence.

Yet, venture beyond these comforting shrouds, and the world's unforgiving malevolence becomes glaringly evident. In the spaces between our tales, the world's indifference to our narratives is laid bare. Natural disasters, disease, suffering—all serve as unrelenting reminders of the brutality that lurks outside our stories

Philosophers have long wrestled with the bitter irony of our predicament. Are we, in truth, prisoners of our own self-deception? Do our narratives act as shields to obscure us from the stark cruelty of reality? Or do they, in their falseness, protect us from the unrelenting heartlessness of the world?

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Arya Stark didn't know nor care about any of these questions, thought. She kept walking on the Trident, enjoying the surreal experience of it all, just like most of the members of the royal caravan.

As Arya merrily strolled upon the calm river's surface, her laughter painted a vivid image of youthful bliss. In her world of sunshine and serenity, she could not have fathomed the unspeakable horror that unfolded simultaneously in the small towns along the Trident, between the Saltpans and Lord Harroway's town.

In these small towns along the Trident, an otherworldly force gripped the terrified residents, rendering them powerless...

Desperation clawed at their chests as they tried to flee, but their bodies moved as if they were marionettes with their strings cruelly severed.

One by one, like fallen dominoes, the townsfolk collapsed to the ground, their writhing, agonized screams ringing out through the streets. It was a haunting chorus of suffering, a macabre symphony of anguish that reached for miles but found no ears to hear.

The silence that followed was maddening, an abyss of stillness where laughter and song had once reigned. The town squares, once alive with activity, were now eerie specters of a past life. Streets lay vacant, devoid of the vibrant spirit that had once flourished.

Rows of buildings stood as somber sentinels, witnessing the agony that had transpired within their walls. The very air was tainted with the lingering scent of decay and despair.

Amid this desolation, countless corpses lay strewn about, their eyes fixed in the throes of their final torment. Their lifeless forms painted a stark contrast to the once-thriving communities they had been.

The silence was absolute, as if the towns had become lost in the grasp of an unforgiving void. The stillness was interrupted only by the silent circling of ravens, ominous portents of the darkness that had befallen these ill-fated places. They circled overhead, their watchful presence a testament to the sinister force that had torn through the heart of these towns.

The wrath of the Trident, the septons would claim, unrelenting and indiscriminate. It had left these settlements in a state of desolation that defied imagination. It was a wrath that only the king's blessing had stopped, a blessing that these forsaken towns had not received...or so they said.

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A.N :

"I want to train more, I want to get stronger, I want to forge my life with my own power! Who cares if I die again, this

is the first time I feel so alive in two lives!''

-Noah (Birth of the Demonic Sword)

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