The girl that was called “Weasel” was sitting in her pitch black solitary cell under the Widow's Tower. Her mind meandered back to the last scene she had seen in broad daylight: how Jaqen H'gar, Rorge, Biter and some others had dangled down the gallows' ropes in the yard. By now, their bodies had been used to feed the bear.
Ser Armory Lorch had told her in detail what he had planned: first, he meant the remaining Bloody Mummers to be sent to the Bear Pit. One man every second day. Not every day. After all, the beast had to be hungry. There were still some sellswords left, and some more had been caught a day or two ago. She could hear them wail and beg for mercy like helpless children when they were led away to their death. Those men, who had been ruthless killers themselves until recently. Until the weasel soup.
But after the mummers... it would be time for the surviving northerners to meet their fate. She had failed them! Had failed them so thoroughly. “Weasel” wished she had her little sword “Needle” back. Then, she would show the castellan her worth!
But she didn't have her beloved weapon.
“Fear cuts deeper than swords!” she admonished herself.
Ser Armory Lorch had told her with a nasty grin that she'd have to wait for her own death until the day the new Master of Harrenhal arrived.
“There is only one God, and his name is Death. And what do we say to the God of Death? - Not today!” the girl whispered with cracked lips.
The castellan had also enjoyed himself while telling her with a cruel smirk: “And do you know who the new Master of Harrenhal is? No? It's The Hound, the infamous Sandor Clegane. He's a bastard of an upstart, but he does know how to kill. And he'll relish to deal with you himself. You're my little welcome present for him, you know?”
The girl's head sagged against the wall, and she remembered the dead butcher boy, Mycah, who had been her friend a lifetime ago. Mycah had been a better friend than Hot Pie and Gendry. He wouldn't have tucked his tail between his legs in fear like them, wouldn't have let her rot in this cell, no.
There were the shrill squeaking and the scurrying feet of rats to be heard in the dark. Dripdripdrip, the dampness on the stones announced.
With a defiant sob the girl called “Weasel” spat: “Ser Gregor, Dunsen, Polliver, Chiswyck, Raff the Sweetling. The Tickler and the Hound. Ser Amory, Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, King Joffrey, Queen Cersei, valar morghulis. VALAR MORGHULIS!! ”