The heads had been dipped in tar¹ to slow the rot. Every morning when Arya went to the well to draw fresh water for Roose Bolton’s basin, she had to pass beneath them. They faced outward, so she never saw their faces, but she liked to pretend that one of them was Joffrey’s. She tried to picture how his pretty face would look dipped in tar. If I was a crow I could fly down and peck off his stupid fat pouty³ lips.  The heads never lacked for attendants. The carrion⁴ crows wheeled about the gatehouse in raucous⁵ unkindness and quarreled upon the ramparts over every eye, screaming and cawing at each other and taking to the air whenever a sentry⁶ passed along the battlements. Sometimes the maester’s ravens⁷ joined the feast as well, flapping down from the rookery on wide black wings. When the ravens came the crows would scatter⁸, only to return the moment the larger birds were gone.  Do the ravens remember Maester Tothmure? Arya wondered. Are they sad for him? When they quork at him, do they wonder why he doesn’t answer? Perhaps the dead could speak to them in some secret tongue the living could not hear.  Tothmure had been sent to the axe⁹ for dispatching birds to Casterly Rock and King’s Landing the night Harrenhal had fallen, Lucan the armorer for making weapons for the Lannisters, Goodwife Harra for telling Lady Whent’s household to serve them, the steward¹⁰ for giving Lord Tywin the keys to the treasure vault¹¹. The cook was spared (some said because he’d made the weasel soup), but stocks were hammered together for pretty Pia and the other women who’d shared their favors with Lannister soldiers. Stripped and shaved, they were left in the middle

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