Autumn had already come to Westeros. Though it had little effect yet on most people south of the Neck, the old oak in the courtyard had lost more than half its leaves, and dry foliage had gathered in the gaps between the paving stones.
A small, skinny figure sat on the stone railing beneath the tree, holding a short sword. Its blade was narrower than an ordinary practice sword, and its well-maintained edge glittered in the autumn light.
A girl who could freely carry a sword deep inside the Red Keep-and a Valyrian steel sword made for a woman, at that-could only be Arya Stark.
She sat with her head bowed, carefully cleaning the blade herself, working an old cloth back and forth along its length. Her movements were unhurried, but her expression was focused. Clearly, she treasured this sword.
A yellow-brown oak leaf drifted down on the wind and brushed her slender neck, but she paid it no attention.
Only when she heard the faint crunch of Viserys's boots on the dry leaves did she spring to her feet and turn to look, her hand already gripping the sword tightly.
To others, the pale gray eyes distinctive to House Stark shone with a sharpness that seemed tempered in the frost and snow of the North. To Viserys, though, Arya looked like a wary little she-wolf.
Only after she recognized the approaching man did the tension slowly ease from her shoulders and back.
The Valyrian steel sword Arya had named Amelia was a gift Viserys had given her back at Dragonwing Castle. His men had found it in the ruins on the Valyrian Peninsula.
After King Ghidorah awakened, the Smoking Sea that had long shrouded the Valyrian Peninsula slowly dispersed. Viserys had then sent men straight in to clear out