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- Джордж Мартин
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"
King
Aerys
,
gods
grace
him
,
"
the
old
man
said
,
too
loudly
.
A
guard
came
sauntering
over
to
shut
them
up
.
The
old
man
lost
both
his
teeth
,
and
there
was
no
more
talk
that
night
.
Besides
his
captives
,
Ser
Gregor
was
bringing
back
a
dozen
pigs
,
a
cage
of
chickens
,
a
scrawny
milk
cow
,
and
nine
wagons
of
salt
fish
.
The
Mountain
and
his
men
had
horses
,
but
the
captives
were
all
afoot
,
and
those
too
weak
to
keep
up
were
killed
out
of
hand
,
along
with
anyone
foolish
enough
to
flee
.
The
guards
took
women
off
into
the
bushes
at
night
,
and
most
seemed
to
expect
it
and
went
along
meekly
enough
.
One
girl
,
prettier
than
the
others
,
was
made
to
go
with
four
or
five
different
men
every
night
,
until
finally
she
hit
one
with
a
rock
.
Ser
Gregor
made
everyone
watch
while
he
took
off
her
head
with
a
sweep
of
his
massive
two
-
handed
greatsword
.
"
Leave
the
body
for
the
wolves
,
"
he
commanded
when
the
deed
was
done
,
handing
the
sword
to
his
squire
to
be
cleaned
.
Arya
glanced
sidelong
at
Needle
,
sheathed
at
the
hip
of
a
black
-
bearded
,
balding
man
-
at
-
arms
called
Polliver
.
It
’
s
good
that
they
took
it
away
,
she
thought
.
Otherwise
she
would
have
tried
to
stab
Ser
Gregor
,
and
he
would
have
cut
her
right
in
half
,
and
the
wolves
would
eat
her
too
.
Polliver
was
not
so
bad
as
some
of
the
others
,
even
though
he
’
d
stolen
Needle
.
The
night
she
was
caught
,
the
Lannister
men
had
been
nameless
strangers
with
faces
as
alike
as
their
nasal
helms
,
but
she
’
d
come
to
know
them
all
.
You
had
to
know
who
was
lazy
and
who
was
cruel
,
who
was
smart
and
who
was
stupid
.
You
had
to
learn
that
even
though
the
one
they
called
Shitmouth
had
the
foulest
tongue
she
’
d
ever
heard
,
he
’
d
give
you
an
extra
piece
of
bread
if
you
asked
,
while
jolly
old
Chiswyck
and
soft
-
spoken
Raff
would
just
give
you
the
back
of
their
hand
.
Arya
watched
and
listened
and
polished
her
hates
the
way
Gendry
had
once
polished
his
horned
helm
.
Dunsen
wore
those
bull
’
s
horns
now
,
and
she
hated
him
for
it
.
She
hated
Polliver
for
Needle
,
and
she
hated
old
Chiswyck
who
thought
he
was
funny
.
And
Raff
the
Sweetling
,
who
’
d
driven
his
spear
through
Lommy
’
s
throat
,
she
hated
even
more
.
She
hated
Ser
Amory
Lorch
for
Yoren
,
and
she
hated
Ser
Meryn
Trant
for
Syrio
,
the
Hound
for
killing
the
butcher
’
s
boy
Mycah
,
and
Ser
Ilyn
and
Prince
Joffrey
and
the
queen
for
the
sake
of
her
father
and
Fat
Tom
and
Desmond
and
the
rest
,
and
even
for
Lady
,
Sansa
’
s
wolf
.
The
Tickler
was
almost
too
scary
to
hate
.
At
times
she
could
almost
forget
he
was
still
with
them
;
when
he
was
not
asking
questions
,
he
was
just
another
soldier
,
quieter
than
most
,
with
a
face
like
a
thousand
other
men
.
Every
night
Arya
would
say
their
names
.
"
Ser
Gregor
,
"
she
’
d
whisper
to
her
stone
pillow
.
"
Dunsen
,
Polliver
,
Chiswyck
,
Raff
the
Sweetling
.
The
Tickler
and
the
Hound
.
Ser
Amory
,
Ser
Ilyn
,
Ser
Meryn
,
King
Joffrey
,
Queen
Cersei
.
"
Back
in
Winterfell
,
Arya
had
prayed
with
her
mother
in
the
sept
and
with
her
father
in
the
godswood
,
but
there
were
no
gods
on
the
road
to
Harrenhal
,
and
her
names
were
the
only
prayer
she
cared
to
remember
.
Every
day
they
marched
,
and
every
night
she
said
her
names
,
until
finally
the
trees
thinned
and
gave
way
to
a
patchwork
landscape
of
rolling
hills
,
meandering
streams
,
and
sunlit
fields
,
where
the
husks
of
burnt
holdfasts
thrust
up
black
as
rotten
teeth
.
It
was
another
long
day
’
s
march
before
they
glimpsed
the
towers
of
Harrenhal
in
the
distance
,
hard
beside
the
blue
waters
of
the
lake
.
It
would
be
better
once
they
got
to
Harrenhal
,
the
captives
told
each
other
,
but
Arya
was
not
so
certain
.
She
remembered
Old
Nan
’
s
stories
of
the
castle
built
on
fear
.
