Taryn, the daughter of Lord Frey’s cook, was returning to the kitchen, grumbling under her breath. She had been sent to sneak some wine that was hidden behind a cache of seldom-used pots. Her lady mother, as usual, was well into her cups but still wanted more.
As she approached her intended destination, she heard a feminine voice, jauntily humming. She found it strange given the Rains of Castamere’s grim subject matter.
She paused at the corner of the cracked door, and peeked in.
She gasped at what her eyes beheld.
It wasn’t the pretty dark-haired serving wench that made her breath catch. Well, that is to say it wasn’t the girl herself that was shocking. It was what she was doing that was met with revulsion.
Holding her hand over her mouth to stave off both the scream and the bile that rose unbidden to her gullet, Taryn stumbled away from the kitchen, desperate for escape. Let her mother get her own gods-be-cursed drink. She’d not come back, oh no. Not tonight.
Arya quieted and stood straight, where she had been stooped over for some time. Had she heard a noise by the door? Craning her neck, she saw nothing and so stretched her muscles briefly before she bent back down to her task.
'Damned Black Walder is harder to butcher than he was to kill,' she grunted to herself.
Continuing with her sawing efforts, she beamed as the hand finally severed free from the arm. Victorious, she tossed it, spinning up in the air, heedless of the blood splattering in its wake. She deftly caught it and plopped it down on the cutting board.
Lord Frey was in for a treat tonight.
She smiled and resumed her humming.