“A wolf with a fish in its mouth?” It made her laugh. “That would look silly.”
That night she went to sleep thinking of her mother […]. She’s so close I could almost smell her…and then she could smell her. The scent was faint beneath the other smells, beneath moss and mud and water, and the stench of rotting reeds and rotting men. She padded slowly through the soft ground to the river’s edge […]. She sniffed the air again. There it was, and now she saw it too, something pale and white drifting down the river, turning where it brushed against a snag. The reeds bowed down before it. […] her jaw closed around a pale white arm. She shook it to make it move, but there was only death and blood in her mouth.
— A Storm of Swords, Arya
— George R. R. Martin