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- Джордж Мартин
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"
Fight
.
Kill
.
Die
,
maybe
.
"
"
Aren
’
t
you
afraid
?
The
gods
might
send
you
down
to
some
terrible
hell
for
all
the
evil
you
’
ve
done
.
"
"
What
evil
?
"
He
laughed
.
"
What
gods
?
"
"
The
gods
who
made
us
all
.
"
"
All
?
"
he
mocked
.
"
Tell
me
,
little
bird
,
what
kind
of
god
makes
a
monster
like
the
Imp
,
or
a
halfwit
like
Lady
Tanda
’
s
daughter
?
If
there
are
gods
,
they
made
sheep
so
wolves
could
eat
mutton
,
and
they
made
the
weak
for
the
strong
to
play
with
.
"
"
True
knights
protect
the
weak
.
"
He
snorted
.
"
There
are
no
true
knights
,
no
more
than
there
are
gods
.
If
you
can
’
t
protect
yourself
,
die
and
get
out
of
the
way
of
those
who
can
.
Sharp
steel
and
strong
arms
rule
this
world
,
don
’
t
ever
believe
any
different
.
"
Sansa
backed
away
from
him
.
"
You
’
re
awful
.
"
"
I
’
m
honest
.
It
’
s
the
world
that
’
s
awful
.
Now
fly
away
,
little
bird
,
I
’
m
sick
of
you
peeping
at
me
.
"
Wordless
,
she
fled
.
She
was
afraid
of
Sandor
Clegane
.
.
.
and
yet
,
some
part
of
her
wished
that
Ser
Dontos
had
a
little
of
the
Hound
’
s
ferocity
.
There
are
gods
,
she
told
herself
,
and
there
are
true
knights
too
.
All
the
stories
can
’
t
be
lies
.
