Arya stares her down. She had been made a mouse once. She had tolerated every humiliation, every indignation, every insult. But she was a direwolf of Winterfell. Hers was the blood of the First Men. She was a daughter of winter. And she would not be made a mouse again. Especially not by a stupid foreign queen.
"You are of no use to your daughter now, Your Grace. You can barely stand."
no subject
"You are of no use to your daughter now, Your Grace. You can barely stand."