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- Джордж Мартин
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- Битва королей
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- Стр. 374/853
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She
had
thought
she
had
known
what
it
meant
to
be
afraid
,
but
she
learned
better
in
that
storehouse
beside
the
Gods
Eye
.
Eight
days
she
had
lingered
there
before
the
Mountain
gave
the
command
to
march
,
and
every
day
she
had
seen
someone
die
.
The
Mountain
would
come
into
the
storehouse
after
he
had
broken
his
fast
and
pick
one
of
the
prisoners
for
questioning
.
The
village
folk
would
never
look
at
him
.
Maybe
they
thought
that
if
they
did
not
notice
him
,
he
would
not
notice
them
.
.
.
but
he
saw
them
anyway
and
picked
whom
he
liked
.
There
was
no
place
to
hide
,
no
tricks
to
play
,
no
way
to
be
safe
.
One
girl
shared
a
soldier
’
s
bed
three
nights
running
;
the
Mountain
picked
her
on
the
fourth
day
,
and
the
soldier
said
nothing
.
A
smiley
old
man
mended
their
clothing
and
babbled
about
his
son
,
off
serving
in
the
gold
cloaks
at
King
’
s
Landing
.
"
A
king
’
s
man
,
he
is
,
"
he
would
say
,
"
a
good
king
’
s
man
like
me
,
all
for
Joffrey
.
"
He
said
it
so
often
the
other
captives
began
to
call
him
All
-
for
-
Joffrey
whenever
the
guards
weren
’
t
listening
.
All
-
for
-
Joffrey
was
picked
on
the
fifth
day
.
A
young
mother
with
a
pox
-
scarred
face
offered
to
freely
tell
them
all
she
knew
if
they
’
d
promise
not
to
hurt
her
daughter
.
The
Mountain
heard
her
out
;
the
next
morning
he
picked
her
daughter
,
to
be
certain
she
’
d
held
nothing
back
.
The
ones
chosen
were
questioned
in
full
view
of
the
other
captives
,
so
they
could
see
the
fate
of
rebels
and
traitors
.
A
man
the
others
called
the
Tickler
asked
the
questions
.
His
face
was
so
ordinary
and
his
garb
so
plain
that
Arya
might
have
thought
him
one
of
the
villagers
before
she
had
seen
him
at
his
work
.
"
Tickler
makes
them
howl
so
hard
they
piss
themselves
,
"
old
stoop
-
shoulder
Chiswyck
told
them
.
He
was
the
man
she
’
d
tried
to
bite
,
who
’
d
called
her
a
fierce
little
thing
and
smashed
her
head
with
a
mailed
fist
.
Sometimes
he
helped
the
Tickler
.
Sometimes
others
did
that
.
Ser
Gregor
Clegane
himself
would
stand
motionless
,
watching
and
listening
,
until
the
victim
died
.
The
questions
were
always
the
same
.
Was
there
gold
hidden
in
the
village
?
Silver
,
gems
?
Was
there
more
food
?
Where
was
Lord
Beric
Dondarrion
?
Which
of
the
village
folk
had
aided
him
?
When
he
rode
off
,
where
did
he
go
?
How
many
men
were
with
them
?
How
many
knights
,
how
many
bowmen
,
how
many
men
-
at
-
arms
?
How
were
they
armed
?
How
many
were
horsed
?
How
many
were
wounded
?
What
other
enemy
had
they
seen
?
How
many
?
When
?
What
banners
did
they
fly
?
Where
did
they
go
?
Was
there
gold
hidden
in
the
village
?
Silver
,
gems
?
Where
was
Lord
Beric
Dondarrion
?
How
many
men
were
with
him
?
By
the
third
day
,
Arya
could
have
asked
the
questions
herself
.
They
found
a
little
gold
,
a
little
silver
,
a
great
sack
of
copper
pennies
,
and
a
dented
goblet
set
with
garnets
that
two
soldiers
almost
came
to
blows
over
.
They
learned
that
Lord
Beric
had
ten
starvelings
with
him
,
or
else
a
hundred
mounted
knights
;
that
he
had
ridden
west
,
or
north
,
or
south
;
that
he
had
crossed
the
lake
in
a
boat
;
that
he
was
strong
as
an
aurochs
or
weak
from
the
bloody
flux
.
No
one
ever
survived
the
Tickler
’
s
questioning
;
no
man
,
no
woman
,
no
child
.
The
strongest
lasted
past
evenfall
.
Their
bodies
were
hung
beyond
the
fires
for
the
wolves
.
By
the
time
they
marched
,
Arya
knew
she
was
no
water
dancer
.
Syrio
Forel
would
never
have
let
them
knock
him
down
and
take
his
sword
away
,
nor
stood
by
when
they
killed
Lommy
Greenhands
.
Syrio
would
never
have
sat
silent
in
that
storehouse
nor
shuffled
along
meekly
among
the
other
captives
.
The
direwolf
was
the
sigil
of
the
Starks
,
but
Arya
felt
more
a
lamb
,
surrounded
by
a
herd
of
other
sheep
.
She
hated
the
villagers
for
their
sheepishness
,
almost
as
much
as
she
hated
herself
.
