Otter Creek a raft of otters

He laughed then. Laughed!

She had not heard this sound from him before; maybe a chuckle, a snort, or an amused sigh, but never outright laughter. Needle was surprised by the sound at first, uncertain what to make of it. Was he losing it?

Though as the sound ebbed, Needle felt herself also relaxing, her righteous resentment dissipating, her hackles lying flat once more.

Good she huffed out, burying the news with a swift rake of her hindpaw against the ground, as if kicking dirt over scat. She moved to continue their walk, but froze as he asked about her family.

Needle stared at him, through him, her gaze a thousand miles away.

I— She wanted to tell him! She wanted to talk about her Ma and Mami and her Sparrow, her Rowyn, her Phoebe! She wanted to tell him her real name! It’s Bryony! It’s Bryony Aquilanera… But the words caught in her throat. The memories felt like being poked in the brain by a very sharp stick. Poked in the back of her eyes. That must be why her eyes ached!

The sensation of wanting to cry stung her fiercely and deep. She had learned, however, that crying was completely, utterly, irredeemably useless. So, she never wanted to cry again. The rogues had made sure of that.

I don’t remember them, she lied, her voice limp. All I know are the rogues, and they weren’t my family. They only kept me alive because one of ‘em said it would be bad luck to leave me and let me die.

She marched past Stark, forcing her legs to move, move past the thoughts, the feelings, the hurt, the past. All she needed to do was keep moving.