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- Джордж Мартин
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"
Summer
is
gone
and
there
are
four
kings
in
the
realm
.
"
"
One
king
may
be
terrible
,
but
four
?
"
He
shrugged
.
"
Nan
,
my
fur
cloak
.
"
She
brought
it
to
him
.
"
My
chambers
will
be
clean
and
orderly
upon
my
return
,
"
he
told
her
as
she
fastened
it
.
"
And
tend
to
Lady
Walda
’
s
letter
.
"
"
As
you
say
,
my
lord
.
"
The
lord
and
maester
swept
from
the
room
,
giving
her
not
so
much
as
a
backward
glance
.
When
they
were
gone
,
Arya
took
the
letter
and
carried
it
to
the
hearth
,
stirring
the
logs
with
a
poker
to
wake
the
flames
anew
.
She
watched
the
parchment
twist
,
blacken
,
and
flare
up
.
If
the
Lannisters
hurt
Bran
and
Rickon
,
Robb
will
kill
them
every
one
.
He
’
ll
never
bend
the
knee
,
never
,
never
,
never
.
He
’
s
not
afraid
of
any
of
them
.
Curls
of
ash
floated
up
the
chimney
.
Arya
squatted
beside
the
fire
,
watching
them
rise
through
a
veil
of
hot
tears
.
If
Winterfell
is
truly
gone
,
is
this
my
home
now
?
Am
I
still
Arya
,
or
only
Nan
the
serving
girl
,
for
forever
and
forever
and
forever
?
She
spent
the
next
few
hours
tending
to
the
lord
’
s
chambers
.
She
swept
out
the
old
rushes
and
scattered
fresh
sweet
-
smelling
ones
,
laid
a
fresh
fire
in
the
hearth
,
changed
the
linens
and
fluffed
the
featherbed
,
emptied
the
chamber
pots
down
the
privy
shaft
and
scrubbed
them
out
,
carried
an
armload
of
soiled
clothing
to
the
washerwomen
,
and
brought
up
a
bowl
of
crisp
autumn
pears
from
the
kitchen
.
When
she
was
done
with
the
bedchamber
,
she
went
down
half
a
flight
of
stairs
to
do
the
same
in
the
great
solar
,
a
spare
drafty
room
as
large
as
the
halls
of
many
a
smaller
castle
.
The
candles
were
down
to
stubs
,
so
Arya
changed
them
out
.
Under
the
windows
was
a
huge
oaken
table
where
the
lord
wrote
his
letters
.
She
stacked
the
books
,
changed
the
candles
,
put
the
quills
and
inks
and
sealing
wax
in
order
.
A
large
ragged
sheepskin
was
tossed
across
the
papers
.
Arya
had
started
to
roll
it
up
when
the
colors
caught
her
eye
:
the
blue
of
lakes
and
rivers
,
the
red
dots
where
castles
and
cities
could
be
found
,
the
green
of
woods
.
She
spread
it
out
instead
.
THE
LANDS
OF
THE
TRIDENT
,
said
the
ornate
script
beneath
the
map
.
The
drawing
showed
everything
from
the
Neck
to
the
Blackwater
Rush
.
There
’
s
Harrenhal
at
the
top
of
the
big
lake
,
she
realized
,
but
where
’
s
Riverrun
?
Then
she
saw
.
It
’
s
not
so
far
.
.
.
The
afternoon
was
still
young
by
the
time
she
was
done
,
so
Arya
took
herself
off
to
the
godswood
.
Her
duties
were
lighter
as
Lord
Bolton
’
s
cupbearer
than
they
had
been
under
Weese
or
even
Pinkeye
,
though
they
required
dressing
like
a
page
and
washing
more
than
she
liked
.
The
hunt
would
not
return
for
hours
,
so
she
had
a
little
time
for
her
needlework
.
She
slashed
at
birch
leaves
till
the
splintery
point
of
the
broken
broomstick
was
green
and
sticky
.
"
Ser
Gregor
,
"
she
breathed
.
"
Dunsen
,
Polliver
,
Raff
the
Sweetling
.
"
She
spun
and
leapt
and
balanced
on
the
balls
of
her
feet
,
darting
this
way
and
that
,
knocking
pinecones
flying
.
"
The
Tickler
,
"
she
called
out
one
time
,
"
the
Hound
,
"
the
next
.
"
Ser
Ilyn
,
Ser
Meryn
,
Queen
Cersei
.
"
The
bole
of
an
oak
loomed
before
her
,
and
she
lunged
to
drive
her
point
through
it
,
grunting
"
Joffrey
,
Joffrey
,
Joffrey
.
"
Her
arms
and
legs
were
dappled
by
sunlight
and
the
shadows
of
leaves
.
A
sheen
of
sweat
covered
her
skin
by
the
time
she
paused
.
The
heel
of
her
right
foot
was
bloody
where
she
’
d
skinned
it
,
so
she
stood
one
-
legged
before
the
heart
tree
and
raised
her
sword
in
salute
.
"
Valar
morghulis
,
"
she
told
the
old
gods
of
the
north
.
She
liked
how
the
words
sounded
when
she
said
them
.
