The uproar and commotion in the Iron Throne Room were shut away behind the heavy oak doors.
In the corridor, torchlight stretched their shadows, one tall and one short, tightly entwined.
Arya clutched the hem of Lynn's clothes without a word.
She had so many questions.
Where had he been for the past month or more? What had he done? Why did he have a dragon, and how had he become involved with Astapor?
But all those questions finally converged on a single name.
It was like a fishbone lodged in her throat, making her miserably uncomfortable.
Myrcella.
The golden-haired princess of House Baratheon.
Arya looked up at Lynn's smiling face, at those eyes that looked especially gentle in the firelight, and the hurt she had just suppressed welled up again.
She pursed her lips and said nothing, merely tugging Lynn toward the kitchens in the Tower of the Hand.
The kitchens were filled with steam, and the cooks were busy preparing the evening feast.
At the sight of Arya and Lynn, they stopped their work and bowed respectfully.
Knowing her way around, Arya took a roast chicken still dripping with fat from the spit, grabbed two loaves from a basket, and pulled Lynn into a small adjoining spice storeroom.
The room was cramped, filled with a warm scent of cinnamon, cloves, and pepper.
It reminded Arya of the days when Lynn had taught her swordplay, and they had hidden behind a door together.
Arya shoved the chicken and bread into Lynn's hands, then curled up in a corner with her arms around her knees, like a little wounded animal.
Lynn tore off a drumstick and took a bite, releasing its rich, savory juices.
"Not eating?"
Lynn held the other drumstick out to Arya.
Arya shook her head and buried