“Tell me your name, child.” “Salty. I come from Saltpans, by the Trident.” Though she could not see his face, somehow she could feel him smiling. “No,” he said. “Tell me your name.” “Squab,” she answered this time. “Your true name, child.” “My mother named me Nan, but they call me Weasel—” “Your name.” She swallowed. “Arry. I’m Arry.” “Closer. And now the truth?” Fear cuts deeper than swords, she told herself. “Arya.” She whispered the word the first time. The second time she threw it at him. “I am Arya, of House Stark.” “You are,” he said, “but the House of Black and White is no place for
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