The sound went on and on and on, until it seemed it would never die. The ravens were flapping and screaming, flying about their cages and banging off the bars, and all about the camp the brothers of the Night’s Watch were rising, donning their armor, buckling on swordbelts, reaching for battleaxes and bows. Samwell Tarly stood shaking, his face the same color as the snow that swirled down all around them. “Three,” he squeaked to Chett, “that was three, I heard three. They never blow three. Not for hundreds and thousands of years. Three means-” “-Others.”
“Tell my son. Jorah. Tell him, take the black. My wish. Dying wish.” ” Wish? ” The raven cocked its head, beady black eyes shining. ” Corn? the bird asked. “No corn,” said Mormont feebly. “Tell Jorah. Forgive him. My son. Please. Go.”
It wasn’t Harren, Arya wanted to say, it was me. She had killed Chiswyck with a whisper, and she would kill two more before she was through. I’m the ghost of Harrenhal, she thought. And that night, there was one less name to hate.