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It
was
almost
evenfall
when
the
new
master
of
Harrenhal
arrived
.
He
had
a
plain
face
,
beardless
and
ordinary
,
notable
only
for
his
queer
pale
eyes
.
Neither
plump
,
thin
,
nor
muscular
,
he
wore
black
ringmail
and
a
spotted
pink
cloak
.
The
sigil
on
his
banner
looked
like
a
man
dipped
in
blood
.
"
On
your
knees
for
the
Lord
of
the
Dreadfort
!
"
shouted
his
squire
,
a
boy
no
older
than
Arya
,
and
Harrenhal
knelt
.
Vargo
Hoat
came
forward
.
"
My
lord
,
Harrenhal
ith
yourth
.
"
The
lord
gave
answer
,
but
too
softly
for
Arya
to
hear
.
Robett
Glover
and
Ser
Aenys
Frey
,
freshly
bathed
and
clad
in
clean
new
doublets
and
cloaks
,
came
up
to
join
them
.
After
some
brief
talk
,
Ser
Aenys
led
them
over
to
Rorge
and
Biter
.
Arya
was
surprised
to
see
them
still
here
;
somehow
she
would
have
expected
them
to
vanish
when
Jaqen
did
.
Arya
heard
the
harsh
sound
of
Rorge
’
s
voice
,
but
not
what
he
was
saying
.
Then
Shagwell
pounced
on
her
,
dragging
her
out
across
the
yard
.
"
My
lord
,
my
lord
,
"
he
sang
,
tugging
at
her
wrist
,
"
here
’
s
the
weasel
who
made
the
soup
!
"
"
Let
go
,
"
Arya
said
,
wriggling
out
of
his
grasp
.
The
lord
regarded
her
.
Only
his
eyes
moved
;
they
were
very
pale
,
the
color
of
ice
.
"
How
old
are
you
,
child
?
"
She
had
to
think
for
a
moment
to
remember
.
"
Ten
.
"
"
Ten
,
my
lord
,
"
he
reminded
her
.
"
Are
you
fond
of
animals
?
"
"
Some
kinds
.
My
lord
.
"
A
thin
smile
twitched
across
his
lips
.
"
But
not
lions
,
it
would
seem
.
Nor
manticores
.
"
