The High Hall of the Arryns was long and austere, with a forbidding coldness to its walls of blue-veined white marble, but the faces around him had been colder by far. He strode into the trees. Yet here and there in the fastness of the woods the children still lived in their wooden cities and hollow hills, and the faces in the trees kept watch. His men attacked Jaime and his guards, even as his wife attacked Tyrion on the kingsroad.
She played the high harp and the bells. Lord Arryn was a kindly, trusting man. Sansa stared hard at his ugly face, remembering how he had thrown down her father for Ser Ilyn to behead, wishing she could hurt him, wishing that some hero would throw him down and cut off his head. She had never seen hair so long, so black, so thick.
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