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- Джордж Мартин
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- Стр. 213/751
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"
The
Hand
will
hear
of
this
!
"
Septa
Mordane
raged
.
"
I
do
n't
care
,
"
Arya
screamed
.
"
Go
away
.
"
"
You
will
rue
this
insolent
behavior
,
young
lady
,
I
promise
you
that
.
"
Arya
listened
at
the
door
until
she
heard
the
sound
of
the
septa
's
receding
footsteps
.
She
went
back
to
the
window
,
Needle
in
hand
,
and
looked
down
into
the
courtyard
below
.
If
only
she
could
climb
like
Bran
,
she
thought
;
she
would
go
out
the
window
and
down
the
tower
,
run
away
from
this
horrible
place
,
away
from
Sansa
and
Septa
Mordane
and
Prince
Joffrey
,
from
all
of
them
.
Steal
some
food
from
the
kitchens
,
take
Needle
and
her
good
boots
and
a
warm
cloak
.
She
could
find
Nymeria
in
the
wild
woods
below
the
Trident
,
and
together
they
'd
return
to
Winterfell
,
or
run
to
Jon
on
the
Wall
.
She
found
herself
wishing
that
Jon
was
here
with
her
now
.
Then
maybe
she
would
n't
feel
so
alone
.
A
soft
knock
at
the
door
behind
her
turned
Arya
away
from
the
window
and
her
dreams
of
escape
.
"
Arya
,
"
her
father
's
voice
called
out
.
"
Open
the
door
.
We
need
to
talk
.
"
Arya
crossed
the
room
and
lifted
the
crossbar
.
Father
was
alone
.
He
seemed
more
sad
than
angry
.
That
made
Arya
feel
even
worse
.
"
May
I
come
in
?
"
Arya
nodded
,
then
dropped
her
eyes
,
ashamed
.
Father
closed
the
door
.
"
Whose
sword
is
that
?
"
"
Mine
.
"
Arya
had
almost
forgotten
Needle
,
in
her
hand
.
"
Give
it
to
me
.
"
Reluctantly
Arya
surrendered
her
sword
,
wondering
if
she
would
ever
hold
it
again
.
Her
father
turned
it
in
the
light
,
examining
both
sides
of
the
blade
.
He
tested
the
point
with
his
thumb
.
"
A
bravo
's
blade
,
"
he
said
.
"
Yet
it
seems
to
me
that
I
know
this
maker
's
mark
.
This
is
Mikken
's
work
.
"
