[center]For what seemed like centuries, the ambiguous child stood there with an unfazed look of horror, confusion, and disbelief. Parts of her tried to reason that she could merely be at the The Vale judging from the extreme mountainous geography and chilling temperatures that the young wolf from Winterfell was long used to. Yet, as much as Arya tried to fool herself, she could not deny the true existence of the complex and insanity-inducing predicament she was put into for seemingly no apparent reason. Gulping deeply, her eyes struggled to break free the trance of merely staring at the stronghold, heavily gasping as her hazel eyes were widen with horror. All of her emotions, her mind, everything was being torn apart violently and trying to find some sort of solace.

Unable to concentrate on several aspects of her environment at once, Arya stared at the pile of pale, lifeless bodies. A few of them had awaken, and already begun to comprehend the true magnitude of this scenario. One of them was a boy, silver-haired like that of a Targaryen, and oddly enough seemed suspiciously calm despite all of this. Perhaps, the tomboy had reasoned in her mind, he knew of something, or more likely was in the same traumatic state the young noblewoman was in. Blinking her eyes, her attention turned towards a cloaked woman, who somberly was checking the pulses of the presumably dead bodies. A bit of Arya felt connection towards the woman, as if just the mere clothing choices and weaponry she wielded was enough to give some false comfort of others being from a place even somewhat like Westeros now residing...well, wherever *here* is.

Finally, her attention directed towards the mysterious scroll that had cemented itself in the makeshift center of the lost and damned souls that were driven into this place. Her hand instinctively reached out, knowing that it had to be something of importance. Ravens in Westeros often carried messages from Houses to Houses, and it would seem as if that tradition was also common wherever she was. Flinching as a soft, elegant, noble voice called out, young Arya's daze directed her attention to quite frankly the most horrifying image she had ever seen in her short-lived life. Stumbling back and laying on her backside, the girl kicked away, one of her hands placed on the hilt of her rapier as she froze.

"YY-Yo..y-yo...You're a Whi'ite Walk'er!" her young voice exclaimed, which sounded not that of a boy or mistakenly a boy that had clearly not hit puberty yet. Hearing the undead man's words, Arya had briefly paused, still shocked by the morbid sight of a walking, talking, oddly yet finely dressed skeleton. He didn't seem like a threat, yet, it was hard to tell what was and wasn't one in such troubled times. Paralyzed, a quick gasp escaped her lips as a masked, tall, formidable swordsman had registered the undead man as a threat. Arising on her own feet, the former noble reached down to tighten the leather belt that was strapped around the girl's white blouse and pale, forest-green tunic. Feeling her (idiotic) bravery setting in, the child barked out, instinctively taking a few steps back.

"W-Wait! I don't think he w'ants to hurt anybody!" the tomboy tried to reason, even though ironically she didn't trust the *Skeleton Man* at all and had just accused the being of being a White Walker mere seconds ago. Holding one of her own hands out defensively, she backed up a little, a hand firmly on Needle as the intensity of this situation seemed to heighten drastically.[/center]