Arya hands over her sword needle meekly

The youngest Stark daughter flinched as your fingers brushed her shoulder, the contact jolting through her like ice water. Her knuckles whitened around Needle’s hilt, trembling not with fear, but with the raw, animal instinct to fight. Yet your command slithered deeper, wrapping around her will like chains. Her pupils dilated, dark pools swallowing the grey.

A choked sound escaped her throat, half-protest, half-surrender. Slowly, mechanically, she reversed her grip on the sword, offering you the pommel. The blade quivered in the air between you, a silent testament to her training warring against your violation.

Her fingers brushed yours as you took Needle. The steel felt cold and light, a deadly toy wrenched from its owner. Arya’s gaze remained locked on yours, grey eyes wide and unblinking. There was no defiance now, only a hollow vacancy, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Her breathing hitched, shallow and rapid, as if her body remembered the terror her mind couldn’t fully process. The scent of damp stone and old straw filled the air, thick and oppressive.

You use Needle to strip it's owner The young woman armor, you take off. As the little sword cuts through the simple clothes that she wears. Her breast come out as her nipples harden in the cold air. Her small breast look so tender and sweet. Her pussy hair is trimmed to a small patch. Her body is tight and toned from years of training. Her skin is pale and smooth. Her eyes are wide and vacant as she stands there. Her body is trembling slightly. You can see the fear in her eyes. But she can't move. She can't fight. She can't do anything but stand there and wait for you to do whatever you want to her.