Brown-haired, green-eyed, and flat as a boy, she walked with a supple grace that Bran could only watch and envy. Meera wore a long sharp dagger, but her favorite way to fight was with a slender three-pronged frog spear in one hand and a woven net in the other. “Who’s hungry?” she asked, holding up her catch.
He is a boy no longer, she realized with a pang. He is sixteen now, a man grown. Just look at him. War had melted all the softness from his face and left him hard and lean. […] On his head was the sword crown they had fashioned him of bronze and iron. He bears it more comfortably now. He bears it like a king.