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Arya

           

           AshivercreptupArya’sspineasshewatchedthempassunderthegreatironportcullisofHarrenhal.Suddenlysheknewthatshehadmadeaterriblemistake.I’msostupid,shethought.Weesedidnotmatter,nomorethanChiswyckhad.Thesewerethemenwhomattered,theonessheoughttohavekilled.Lastnightshecouldhavewhisperedanyofthemdead,ifonlyshehadn’tbeensomadatWeeseforhittingherandlyingaboutthecapon.LordTywin,whydidn’tIsayLordTywin?

           Perhapsitwasnottoolatetochangehermind.Weesewasnotkilledyet.IfshecouldfindJaqen,tellhim...

           Hurriedly,Aryarandownthetwistingsteps,herchoresforgotten.Sheheardtherattleofchainsastheportculliswasslowlylowered,itsspikessinkingdeepintotheground...andthenanothersound,ashriekofpainandfear.

           Adozenpeoplegottherebeforeher,thoughnonewascominganytooclose.Aryasquirmedbetweenthem.Weesewassprawledacrossthecobbles,histhroataredruin,eyesgapingsightlesslyupatabankofgreycloud.Hisuglyspotteddogstoodonhischest,lappingatthebloodpulsingfromhisneck,andeverysooftenrippingamouthfuloffleshoutofthedeadman’sface.

           FinallysomeonebroughtacrossbowandshotthespotteddogdeadwhileshewasworryingatoneofWeese’sears.

           "Damnedestthing,"sheheardamansay."Hehadthatbitchdogsinceshewasapup"

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