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- Джордж Мартин
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The
Imp
’
s
voice
cracked
like
a
whip
,
and
suddenly
Sansa
was
free
.
She
stumbled
to
her
knees
,
arms
crossed
over
her
chest
,
her
breath
ragged
.
"
Is
this
your
notion
of
chivalry
,
Ser
Boros
?
"
Tyrion
Lannister
demanded
angrily
.
His
pet
sellsword
stood
with
him
,
and
one
of
his
wildlings
,
the
one
with
the
burned
eye
.
"
What
sort
of
knight
beats
helpless
maids
?
"
"
The
sort
who
serves
his
king
,
Imp
.
"
Ser
Boros
raised
his
sword
,
and
Ser
Meryn
stepped
up
beside
him
,
his
blade
scraping
clear
of
its
scabbard
.
"
Careful
with
those
,
"
warned
the
dwarf
’
s
sellsword
.
"
You
don
’
t
want
to
get
blood
all
over
those
pretty
white
cloaks
.
"
"
Someone
give
the
girl
something
to
cover
herself
with
,
"
the
Imp
said
.
Sandor
Clegane
unfastened
his
cloak
and
tossed
it
at
her
.
Sansa
clutched
it
against
her
chest
,
fists
bunched
hard
in
the
white
wool
.
The
coarse
weave
was
scratchy
against
her
skin
,
but
no
velvet
had
ever
felt
so
fine
.
"
This
girl
’
s
to
be
your
queen
,
"
the
Imp
told
Joffrey
.
"
Have
you
no
regard
for
her
honor
?
"
"
I
’
m
punishing
her
.
"
"
For
what
crime
?
She
did
not
fight
her
brother
’
s
battle
.
"
"
She
has
the
blood
of
a
wolf
.
"
"
And
you
have
the
wits
of
a
goose
.
"
"
You
can
’
t
talk
to
me
that
way
.
The
king
can
do
as
he
likes
.
"
