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- Джордж Мартин
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"
I
feared
you
would
not
come
,
child
.
"
Sansa
whirled
.
A
man
stepped
out
of
the
shadows
,
heavyset
,
thick
of
neck
,
shambling
.
He
wore
a
dark
grey
robe
with
the
cowl
pulled
forward
,
but
when
a
thin
sliver
of
moonlight
touched
his
cheek
,
she
knew
him
at
once
by
the
blotchy
skin
and
web
of
broken
veins
beneath
.
"
Ser
Dontos
,
"
she
breathed
,
heartbroken
.
"
Was
it
you
?
"
"
Yes
,
my
lady
.
"
When
he
moved
closer
,
she
could
smell
the
sour
stench
of
wine
on
his
breath
.
"
Me
.
"
He
reached
out
a
hand
.
Sansa
shrank
back
.
"
Don
’
t
!
"
She
slid
her
hand
under
her
cloak
,
to
her
hidden
knife
.
"
What
.
.
.
what
do
you
want
with
me
?
"
"
Only
to
help
you
,
"
Dontos
said
,
"
as
you
helped
me
.
"
"
You
’
re
drunk
,
aren
’
t
you
?
"
"
Only
one
cup
of
wine
,
to
help
my
courage
.
If
they
catch
me
now
,
they
’
ll
strip
the
skin
off
my
back
.
"
And
what
will
they
do
to
me
?
Sansa
found
herself
thinking
of
Lady
again
.
She
could
smell
out
falsehood
,
she
could
,
but
she
was
dead
,
Father
had
killed
her
,
on
account
of
Arya
.
She
drew
the
knife
and
held
it
before
her
with
both
hands
.
"
Are
you
going
to
stab
me
?
"
Dontos
asked
.
