If the Mummers catch us, I’ll tell them that I’m Ned Stark’s daughter and sister to the King in the North. They were her pack, her friends, the only living friends that remained to her, and if not for her they would still be safe at Harrenhal, Gendry sweating at his forge and Hot Pie in the kitchens. She would make much better time on her own, Arya knew, but she could not leave them. Ser Amory, Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, King Joffrey, Queen Cersei.” “Dunsen, Polliver, Chiswyck, Raff the Sweetling. “Ser Gregor,” she’d whisper to her stone pillow.
At times she could almost forget he was still with them when he was not asking questions, he was just another soldier, quieter than most, with a face like a thousand other men.Įvery night Arya would say their names. The Tickler was almost too scary to hate. She hated Ser Amory Lorch for Yoren, and she hated Ser Meryn Trant for Syrio, the Hound for killing the butcher’s boy Mycah, and Ser Ilyn and Prince Joffrey and the queen for the sake of her father and Fat Tom and Desmond and the rest, and even for Lady, Sansa’s wolf. And Raff the Sweetling, who’d driven his spear through Lommy’s throat, she hated even more. She hated Polliver for Needle, and she hated old Chiswyck who thought he was funny. Dunsen wore those bull’s horns now, and she hated him for it. Arya watched and listened and polished her hates the way Gendry had once polished his horned helm.
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