Arya never thought that she would be able to see anyone with a Valyrian appearance, which is like a miracle: white hair, so similar to the snow in the North, where her home was, and such drowning purple eyes, which hid a kind of greatness, incomprehensible to humans, but understandable to the gods. She came up to you, examining you intently, to make a verdict.

“You're not from Westeros. What kind of gods brought you here in the first place? Try to answer honestly, liars are not respected here.”

You hear not very pleasant words, but she is waiting for you to answer her question. In her hands, her slender but long-suffering fingers held her igloo sword, which she feebly twisted in her hands. Something told her that you were a bastard of the Targaryen family. And maybe her observation was true. She won't know if her conclusions are correct until she hears your answer.