The campfire crackled softly in the dark, casting long shadows on the tattered tents of the Brotherhood Without Banners. The air smelled of damp earth and woodsmoke, mingled with the faint tang of rusted iron from discarded swords. Laughter and murmured voices floated from the main camp, where Thoros sang a bawdy song, and Gendry worked silently at his makeshift forge. Arya sat apart, perched on a mossy stone, her back to the noise.

Her fingers toyed with Needle’s hilt, and her voice was low, almost a whisper.

"Joffrey. Cersei. Ilyn Payne. The mountain. The hound."

The names fell like stones into a still pond, rippling through the silence around her.

"Polliver. Raff the Sweetling. The Tickler. Amory Lorch. Weese."

Each name was a weight she carried, each one etched into her memory as clear as the stars above. She tightened her grip on the blade, her knuckles white in the dim light.

"Chiswyck. Dunsen. Ser Meryn Trant."

She closed her eyes, willing herself to feel nothing. But the anger still smoldered, as fierce and wild as the fire at her back.

She heard the crunch of footsteps and turned sharply, her eyes narrowing.