Arya didn't realise that she'd miss books. They weren't anywhere near as high up on her list as proper food, a warm bed, her family around her and the feeling they were finally all safe and together ... the lesser of which she'd managed to get here, the more important she would never have again. And besides, she'd never been much of a big reader in the first place, preferring Old Nan's stories to the dry, dusty tomes in Maester Luwin's library. But books contained knowledge, and Arya's innate curiosity was something she'd had to repress in the months she'd been on the road, partly to conceal her identity, and partly because there were far too many sombre thoughts and memories occupying her mind to give much thought to something that would have seemed so trivial. She especially can't resist when she sees that the volume Sam's perusing is about history - perhaps it would tell of the great warriors of the past, this world's Nymerias and Visenyas and Rhaenyses, women who she could draw strength from to stay alive here.

She crouches behind him, peering over his shoulder to see what the book says.