The smell of blood at the Twins still clung stubbornly to the cracks between the stones, even after three days of washing them with river water.
At night especially, that smell mingled with the damp air and drifted faintly into people's nostrils, reminding them of what had happened here.
The fireplace blazed in Lynn's room.
He disliked dampness.
Now, to avoid arousing Lysa's suspicions, "Petyr" was cautiously evading his "pursuers."
It had taken the two of them a long time to finally reach the outskirts of the Eyrie.
Lynn could not help using his skinchanger ability to remind "Petyr" to hurry up.
Roslin Frey knelt on the rug beside the fireplace.
With a small pair of silver tongs, she carefully adjusted the burning logs.
She worked with intense concentration, as though this were the most important task in the world.
The flames danced, their orange light falling across her delicate, pale face.
Her long eyelashes cast small shadows beneath her eyes.
She had changed into a well-fitting maid's dress, its dark blue fabric making her skin look even fairer.
Her hair had also been carefully combed and tied back with a simple ribbon.
For the past three days, she had tended to Lynn's daily needs like a true maid.
Making his bed, preparing his meals, mixing his ink...
She was clumsy, but utterly earnest.
Everyone else in the castle, whether soldiers from the North or servants of House Tully, treated her with a peculiar delicacy.
Awe, distance... and a trace of sympathy that was difficult to define.
She was a daughter of House Frey, but she was also Lord Lynn's "spoils of war" and personal maid.
No one dared trouble her, but no one dared grow close to her either.
Roslin could feel their stares.
But she did not care.