[ Seeing Arya covered in dirt is one thing. It's as she nears that he can distinguish the subtle differences, a hand running through her hair coming away far sooner than it ought. Sitting on a bench, he tugs her in close and wraps his arms around her, trying to remember when she grew quite so much and failing. ]

Die? [ Peering down at her, he shakes his head and ensures she's held in his embrace, tucked beneath his chin. ] If you've cut your hair because you had a bad dream and gone chasing cats in the dirty corridors again, I can't rightly say even I'll be able to save you from Septa Mordane's wrath.