The king's smile was as terrible as his wound, his teeth red. He gave her the same answer. She was seated between Septa Mordane and Jeyne Poole, as far from Arya as she could get without drawing a reproach from Father. Ned had known their faces as well as he knew his own once, but the years leech at a man's memories, even those he has vowed never to forget.
He was playing a man's part now, and she would not take that away from him. Was it her own voice, or Syrio's? She could not tell, yet somehow it calmed her fears. This was a place of deep silence and brooding shadows, and the gods who lived here had no names. Beric Dondarrion was handsome enough, but he was awfully old, almost twenty-two; the Knight of Flowers would have been much better.
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