Arya's POV

It had been over a year that Arya Stark had lost her sight to the servants of the many-faced-god. Since then she was thrown out of the temple with nothing but the rags she was wearing. She was **** to beg to survive. Not even able to steal due to her cursed disability.

In the first weeks she felt like a newborn who was thrown into the cold, cruel world. With time she had grown a little bit used with her dulled senses. She could sometimes tell which way she was going, like at that very moment.

Some of her senses had to sharpen to compensate her lack of vision. She didn't really appreciate her honed sense of smell, since it meant having to endure her own stink every hour of the day.

It was strange, but she also found that her reek also provided some advantage. She was so filthy that no man dared touch her inappropriately, men at least. She recalled the time when a pack of dogs mistook her for one of their own females and... she'd rather not think about how she lost her virginity.

Arya felt someone bumping into her, which made her fall to her knees. She could tell that it was a man because of how hard it was.

"Pardon me sire." She meekly apologised hoping that the he wouldn't kick her like they would normally do. She quickly got up and used her stick to guide her on her way.

She'd curse them for bumping into her, but after the beatings that followed in response she soon learned that she didn't hold the authority of a lady of Winterfell, only the humiliation of a blind beggar who nobody cared where she was from.

Arya would regret all the choices that brought her there when she tried to fall asleep on the gutter. Killing Meryn Trant, fleeing to Braavos, abandoning her sister, not listening to her mother, not confessing her feelings to...

The putrid smell of dead fish indicated that she was near one of the docks of Ragman's Harbour. She felt her guiding stick hitting a wall and then sat next to it, making herself cozy on the dirty ground. The blind girl placed the bowl responsible for bringing money on her lap, hoping that the fishermen and dock workers would be kind and generous that morning.

Her mind went back to her home. Last time she was in Westeros, a war had been going on. She sometimes would hear what the merchants had to say, but apart of how the crown was in debt, she didn't know much else. She hoped that her family were doing better than her. Arya conjured an image of each of them inside her head. Her father, her mother, Jon, Robb. She couldn't remember what colour was Rickon's eyes. She knew that Sansa had a curvaceous body though, that had been the reason she was always jealous of her after all.

Bran was the one she remembered most vividly. His lean frame, his wild hair which held the same colour of her father's, his intense dark eyes. Arya sneaked the shape of his manhood in there as well, as she'd peek when he was washing himself.

Her mind stopped once she realised that there was a presence in front of her. It had been standing there for a while now, she could tell. The blind beggar raised the bowl in front of her, hoping that she could turn some of that pity into money.