[ Ice is the greatsword wielded by the Lord of Winterfell, she doesn't say. Her father who was so strong could only lift it with both hands. As wide as a man's hand and almost as tall as her eighteen-year-old brother. It was forged in Valyria so it never needed to be sharpened. Her father had used it in battle and to execute the condemned—and then it was taken from their House and used to execute their lord, her father. She doesn't say any of this. It's too raw, too personal to share. She shrugs instead. ]

I've always liked them. I used to watch my brothers practice with the Master-at-Arms. I was learning how to fight—I was getting good!—but…

[ She trails off. Her father is a ragged, bleeding wound, which hurts so much she cannot close her eyes for fear of seeing it happen again. But she still aches for her teacher. He was so brave and he taught her so much and he protected her and refused to run at the end—but she cannot remember him. Not even a name. He's just her "dancing teacher." At least she still has the memory of her kind and handsome father, to polish and fret over and tuck away somewhere no one and nothing may ever tarnish it. All she has left of her teacher are his words. ]