A knight of the Kingsguard stood beneath the arch of the door with five Lannister guardsmen arrayed behind him. He was in full armor, but his visor was up. Arya remembered his droopy eyes and rustcolored whiskers from when he had come to Winterfell with the king: Sir Meryn Trant. The red cloaks wore mail shirts over boiled leather and steel caps with lion crests. "Arya Stark," the knight said, "come with us, child."
Arya chewed her lip uncertainly. "What do you want?"
Your father wants to see you.
Arya took a step forward, but Syrio Forel held her by the arm. "And why is it that Lord Eddard is sending Lannister men in the place of his own? I am wondering."
Mind your place, dancing master, Sir Meryn said. "This is no concern of yours."
My father wouldn't send you, Arya said. She snatched up her stick sword. The Lannisters laughed.
Put down the stick, girl, Sir Meryn told her. "I am a Sworn Brother of the Kingsguard, the White Swords."
So was the Kingslayer when he killed the old king, Arya said. "I don't have to go with you if I don't want."
Sir Meryn Trant ran out of patience. "Take her," he said to his men. He lowered the visor of his helm.
Three of them started forward, chainmail clinking softly with each step. Arya was suddenly afraid. Fear cuts deeper than swords, she told herself, to slow the racing of her heart.