The sky was as black as the walls of Harrenhal behind them, and the rain fell soft and steady, muffling¹ the sound of their horses’ hooves and running down their faces.  They rode north, away from the lake, following a rutted farm road across the torn fields and into the woods and streams. Arya took the lead, kicking her stolen horse to a brisk heedless trot² until the trees closed in around her. Hot Pie and Gendry followed as best they could. Wolves howled off in the distance, and she could hear Hot Pie’s heavy breathing. No one spoke³. From time to time Arya glanced over her shoulder, to make sure the two boys had not fallen too far behind, and to see if they were being pursued.  They would be, she knew. She had stolen three horses from the stables and a map and a dagger⁴ from Roose Bolton’s own solar, and killed a guard on the postern gate, slitting⁵ his throat when he knelt to pick up the worn iron coin that Jaqen H’ghar had given her. Someone would find him lying dead in his own blood, and then the hue⁶ and cry would go up. They would wake Lord Bolton and search Harrenhal from crenel to cellar, and when they did they would find the map and the dagger missing, along with some swords from the armory⁷, bread and cheese from the kitchens, a baker⁸ boy, a ‘prentice smith, and a cupbearer called Nan... or Weasel, or Arry, depending on who you asked.  The Lord of the Dreadfort would not come after them himself. Roose Bolton would stay abed, his pasty flesh dotted with leeches⁹, giving commands in his whispery soft voice. His man Walton might lead the hunt, the one they called Steelshanks for the greaves he always wore on his long legs. Or perhaps it would be slobbery Vargo Hoat and his sellswords, who named themselves the Brave Companions. Others called them

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