The rising sun had not yet cleared the walls of Winterfell, but the men were already hard at it in the yard below. Some of the lords on Lysa's terrace were making wry jests as they refilled their wine cups, but across the gar Help me saddle a horse, Arya pleaded, reaching back into the chest, groping for Needle. Stannis Baratheon and Lysa Arryn have fled beyond my reach, and the whispers say they are gathering swords around them.
If you knew what the oath would cost you, you might be less eager to pay the price, son. He reeled away, unsteady on his feet, and Grey Wind snapped at his arm, teeth ripping at his sleeve and tearing loose a scrap of cloth. She remembered making mud pies with Lysa, the weight of them, the mud slick and brown between her fingers. Another him was a thought too dreadful to contemplate.
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