He looked into Arya's earnest gray eyes. The sharpness deep within them made him feel as though he were looking into the eyes of a wolf.
He also remembered Arya from the original story, the girl who had walked alone through the mud and blood of the Riverlands after the Red Wedding. The girl who, alone in the silence and shadows of the House of Black and White in Braavos, had learned to erase her name, learned the art of killing, and become one of the Faceless Men.
Those remembered images overlapped with the slight figure before him, stirring a complicated mix of emotions in his heart.
This girl had a refusal to yield bred into her bones. Yet it was that very stubbornness that had kept her alive in the darkest circumstances, allowing her to cross those names off her list at last and kill her enemies with her own hands.
"You will," Viserys said firmly once more, his voice filled with trust.
His gentle, unwavering gaze rested on Arya, offering her silent support.
Seeing the look in his eyes, Arya's lips curled into a smile. This time, however, the sharpness of her earlier smile had faded, replaced by a young girl's innocence and carefree charm.
"Your Grace," she suddenly spoke again, her voice light, as though she were asking casually, though her words carried a deeper meaning. "You've spent so much time with my sister now. Tell me, do you think Sansa is beautiful? Does she suit your 'tastes'?"
As she spoke, her eyes remained fixed on Viserys. Alongside a hint of anticipation was a nervousness that even Arya herself could not explain, as though she feared hearing his answer.
Her fingers unconsciously rubbed the hem of her tunic, betraying the turmoil within her.
Viserys paused at her