“Soon or late you must meet Myranda Royce,” Petyr had warned her. “When you do, be careful. She likes to play the merry fool, but underneath she’s shrewder than her father. Guard your tongue around her.”
“Her own blood knew it was the only way!”
“The only way for what?! They all died anyway! You told everyone Stannis was the one, you had him believing it, all of them fooled, and you lied!”
“I didn’t lie! I was wrong.”
“Aye. You were wrong. How many died because you were wrong?”
It was a dark, primal place, three acres of old forest untouched for ten thousand years as the gloomy castle rose around it. It smelled of moist earth and decay. No redwoods grew here. This was a wood of stubborn sentinel trees armored in grey-green needles, of mighty oaks, of ironwoods as old as the realm itself. Here thick black trunks crowded close together while twisted branches wove a dense canopy overhead and misshappen roots wrestled beneath the soil. This was a place of deep silence and brooding shadows, and the gods who lived here had no names.
One day she came back, her hair all tangled and her clothes covered in mud, clutching a bunch of purple and green flowers for Father. Sansa kept hoping he would tell Arya to behave herself and act like the highborn lady she was supposed to be, but he never did. He just hugged her and thanked her for the flowers.