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Arya

           TheshortestofthemwashalfagainastallasthehighesttowerinWinterfell,buttheydidnotsoarthewayapropertowerdid.Aryathoughttheylookedlikesomeoldman’sgnarled,knucklyfingersgropingafterapassingcloud.SherememberedNantellinghowthestonehadmeltedandflowedlikecandlewaxdownthestepsandinthewindows,glowingasullensearingredasitsoughtoutHarrenwherehehid.Aryacouldbelieveeveryword;eachtowerwasmoregrotesqueandmisshapenthanthelast,lumpyandrunneledandcracked.

           "Idon’twanttogothere,"HotPiesqueakedasHarrenhalopeneditsgatestothem."There’sghostsinthere."

           Chiswyckheardhim,butforonceheonlysmiled."Bakerboy,here’syourchoice.Comejointheghosts,orbeone."

           HotPiewentinwiththerestofthem.

           Intheechoingstone-and-timberbathhouse,thecaptiveswerestrippedandmadetoscrubandscrapethemselvesrawintubsofscaldinghotwater.Twofierceoldwomensupervisedtheprocess,discussingthemasbluntlyasiftheywerenewlyacquireddonkeys.WhenArya’sturncameround,GoodwifeAmabelcluckedindismayatthesightofherfeet,whileGoodwifeHarrafeltthecallusonherfingersthatlonghoursofpracticewithNeedlehadearnedher."Gotthosechurningbutter,I’llwager,"shesaid."Somefarmer’swhelp,areyou?Well,neveryoumind,girl,youhaveachancetowinahigherplaceinthisworldifyouworkhard.Ifyouwon’tworkhard,you’llbebeaten.

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