Arya was supposed to join them, but she was late coming back from her dancing lesson. When the direwolf howled again, Tyrion shut the heavy leatherbound cover on the book he was reading, a hundredyear-old discourse on the changing of the seasons by a long-dead maester. The boy looked at him suspiciously. I named him Rhaego.
It was the grief, the cold, the howling of the direwolves. He mounted, the reins in his hand, and wheeled the horse around to face the night. Pyp was in the middle of a story. That's what they say, Mord- Mord grunted.
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