[ Arya does not know this place, but she thinks she knows a place like this.
Of all the dreams she's visited, this one is more obviously a dream than any other. How could it be anything but? There is too much power in this place to exist anywhere else, Arya thinks. It's too perfect. She moves silently, respectfully though the forest. It reminds her a little of Winterfell's godswood. The gods spoke there, too, although they did it through wind and not through language.
She comes to the edge of a small clearing, and doesn't dare go any further. She doesn't want to trample on the wildflowers. Instead, she tries speaking back, for once. She figures the trees might not listen to someone like her, but it's worth a shot. When she speaks, she speaks in careful, slow High Valyrian. It's not the exact language of these trees, but if Westeros had a language of the gods, she figures High Valyrian is it.
She asks the trees the question she's been struggling with for so long. ]
delight
Of all the dreams she's visited, this one is more obviously a dream than any other. How could it be anything but? There is too much power in this place to exist anywhere else, Arya thinks. It's too perfect. She moves silently, respectfully though the forest. It reminds her a little of Winterfell's godswood. The gods spoke there, too, although they did it through wind and not through language.
She comes to the edge of a small clearing, and doesn't dare go any further. She doesn't want to trample on the wildflowers. Instead, she tries speaking back, for once. She figures the trees might not listen to someone like her, but it's worth a shot. When she speaks, she speaks in careful, slow High Valyrian. It's not the exact language of these trees, but if Westeros had a language of the gods, she figures High Valyrian is it.
She asks the trees the question she's been struggling with for so long. ]
Who are you?