Wrote this a while ago, the painting that follows is inspired by the same.
Arya was conflicted. She wanted to love more than to be loved, but she didn’t always succeed at this endeavor. The minute she felt her defence slipping, the moment she sensed her heart flutter, she would deem it weak and wounded and banish it to the realm of sour memories. You see, she was her harshest critic. This voice was stronger than her own, in her head it was this Arya that dominated, the one that told her that even thinking of something as basic as love was stupid and obnoxious, that she was better off alone because she shouldn’t subject her heart to harsh trials. It was this voice that severed the cord between her head and her heart. There it lay, in the pit of her stomach, her heart forgotten for twenty years, biding its time. Like damp leaves in autumn, it rot there, listening to the mind gradually eating away her skin and bones, turning her into one of them.