A thin smile twitched across his lips. “But not lions, it would seem. Nor manticores.” She did not know what to say to that, so she said nothing. “They tell me you are called Weasel. That will not serve. What name did your mother give you?” She bit her lip, groping for another name. Lommy had called her Lumpyhead, Sansa used Horseface, and her father’s men once dubbed her Arya Underfoot, but she did not think any of those were the sort of name he wanted.
