There’s a lot of beauty in ordinary things. Isn’t that kind of the point?
“who are you?” he would ask her every day. “no one” she would answer, she who had been arya of house stark, arya underfoot, arya horseface. she had been arry and weasel too, and squab and salty, nan the cupbearer, a grey mouse, a sheep, the ghost of harrenhal but not for true, not in her heart of hearts. in there she was arya of winterfell, the daughter of lord eddard stark and lady catelyn, who had once had brothers named robb and bran and rickon, a sister named sansa, a direwolf called nymeria, a half brother named jon snow. in there she was someone
Sometimes when I dream, I sense a part of me that’s missing. It’s a strange feeling having your heart remember something your mind can not.