re the Lords of Winterfell had sat since the days when they called themselves the Kings in the North. Left, Syrio sang out. The guards outside the door still refused to let them leave the room. They were histories and songs of the Seven Kingdoms, she saw, written in the Common Tongue.
You are khaleesi, Rakharo said, taking the arakh. But not of the Kingsguard, Ser Gerold pointed out. He looked somehow smaller and more vulnerable, like the youth she had wed in the sept at Riverrun, fifteen long years gone. Tyrion found Bronn sharing a skin of wine with the new servants.
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