She couldn't form words, her throat constricting as the grief of the last three years welled up. It hurt so much that she thought her chest might cave in and she'd stop breathing. The sound of his voice was a thousand knives and the songs of birds in one breath. Every night she saw in her minds-eye the crowd in front of Baelor's statue. She saw her father standing up there, haggard and wrong looking. Sansa stood not far away, trying her best to look brave and all Arya had wanted to do was run up to the both of them. She remembered the hushed sigh that fell afterwards when they'd cut off his head, though she hadn't seen what had happened.

Instead of speaking, an unintelligible broken sob spilled out, followed by more and followed still by tears. She remembered being very young, when even a scraped knee brought tears to her eyes and when Jon wasn't there to comfort her it was always her father. He had always been gentle, always encouraging her despite the fact that there were expectations upon her to be a certain way. She had told him once that being a lady, marrying a lord and overseeing his castle, was not for her. It hadn't been her then and it wasn't her now. Crying all over your father probably wasn't very ladylike but she did it anyway.