She knows how easy it is to slip a knife in someone's back, how easy ot is to drag its edge across their throat if you get close enough, if you trust them enough, and she remembers Dareon, remembers how he made himself a deserter who meant to marry a whore, and how she'd let him think she was no danger, so it had been no difficulty to kill him from behind.

She did not think Alayne would ever mean to kill her. She was not certain Alayne could kill. But these were the thoughts that now came to mind when people came close.

Arya did not pull away, only stared at the threads of Alayne's dress, directly in front of her nose. It was easier that way, to see part of her, but not really see her, because the things she wanted to ask were dangerous things, things she wasn't certain she should be giving voice to at all. "He doesn't," she agreed, and that hurt to say. Jon, Jon did not understand her. It might have been funny, but she could find no humor in it: Jon had lost his insight into her, and Sansa-who-as-no-longer-Sansa had gained it.

Arya Horseface would have scoffed and maybe laughed, if bitterly, had someone told her she would one day go to her sister before her brother. Arya Underfoot would have rolled her eyes. No-name Jeyne did nothing but lean, and hug, and, very quietly - as if speaking the words might ruin their truce, ruin all of it - speak. "Is he right?"