She's seen worse: nothing, nothing can match the sight of her brother as nothing but a burnt out, charcoaled corpse. Nothing can beat the smell of that, either. But violence is violence, and she's used to the petty sort. Brawls, punches, beatings. The quiet violence of a man's hands.

Not this.

And not this again.

"Miss Margaery's," she says. "A week ago. It was killed the same way, it looks like."