Arya jerked awake. A high screeching filled her hearing, like the squeal of ice on metal, like the roaring wind of a hurricane. A spike was driving itself viciously into the back of her skull, an agony so great her vision blurred, as if her skull were expanding from the inside out. She heard a high, keening shriek of pain - her own - and attempted, in a panic, to gather her mental defences, fighting to keep from giving in to the whirlwind. 
	And just like that, the presence moved away.
	She shivered. 
	Many hours later, she fell asleep again.

	* * *

	The next morning, Arya pulled a parcel out of her bedside drawer, and sat cross-legged on the floor. Out of the parcel, she pulled a small black book and charcoal, of the type used by students and scribes. Taking a deep breath, she chanted through a nursery rhyme, paying little attention to the words. With her eyes closed, she passed the charcoal along the paper. At first, the markings were nothing but loops and lines, but as time progressed, they resolved into shapes, and slowly bent into complex symbols. 
	Opening her eyes, she fell silent. Her eyes scanned the page with a scholar's eye. It had not been a deliberate attack, that much was certain. The presence had merely passed within her range while her defenses were down. She desperately hoped it had not noticed her, but it was impossible to say. There were no patterns of aggression, but several symbols were drawn with an odd slant. A lapse in concentration, or a clue? Tracing her finger along another circular symbol, her brow furrowed. It was one she didn't recognize. A name, perhaps? A place? 
	Sighing, she replaced the book and charcoal into her bag. Father Roe would have known what to make of it.