He saw his mother sitting alone in a cabin, looking at a bloodstained knife on a table in front of her, as the rowers pulled at their oars and Ser Rodrik leaned across a rail, shaking and heaving. The guards exchanged a glance. Their blond curls were all a fashionable tumble, and gold ornaments shone at wrists and fingers and throats. I do not see Robb.
I think we shall be safe enough at the inn, Ser Rodrik. He was dripping wet from the neck down, steaming in the chill air. Winter is coming, Arya whispered. A mob of men followed him up the slope, dirty and dented and grinning, with Theon and the Greatjon at their head.
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