She'd known somehow that escape was a futile dream, one that lay tantalizingly close but still unerringly out of reach. His snarling seems to hound her as she stumbles away, a broken doll jerking on her strings, porcelain hands slipping on the cusp of freedom, incapable of securing themselves and hoisting her to freedom. It seems slow, though she knows it's not, when he springs at her from the right and rips her crown from her head. It's ironic in the most profound of ways, as she watches it fall glittering away from her and rest upon the earth, still beautiful but lost in the undergrowth. Feels the heat of his soft furred skin like a phantom lover's embrace before everything returns to the speed it should be, and he's slamming into her fragile form and sending her skittering to the left. His teeth clamp down on the side of her crest, teasing and flirting with the side of her jugular vein. She falls limp, a kitten by the nape, her fear pounding hot against his teeth. His leg strikes out and slams into her right hind leg and she crumples with it if only to spare the bone. Not broken, she reassures herself even as she sages and falls into him. As if no time had passed and she simply sought solace in his skin and scent, trusting him to keep her safe as she had for so many countless seasons. 

Her pride breaks and her tears flow seamlessly down her cheeks, tiny hiccups and moans of pain as her body betrays her, her legs barely holding even the weight of her small frame. "Stop," she sobs, knowing it's futile but not sure what else she can do here. Why doesn't he just kill her? It would be a kinder end than this, than having to face the vilified ghost of the soul she used to love and rely upon. At least she could see her mother's smiling face, her father's reborn and untormented eyes, and spend the afterlife in their embrace. "Please, end this," and it rips from her throat and she doesn't care that she's asking for the end, that she has embraced such cowardly attributes here at her personal end of the world. I'm sorry, Alice. I'm sorry, Arya. She blesses the fact that Tingal does not know who Arya is, that her immortality will keep her from suffering a fate like this, or at least from succumbing to mortality as she fears she will.