“Stop it!” Arya screamed. She grabbed up her fallen stick. Sansa was afraid. “Arya, you stay out of this.”
“I won’t hurt him… much,” Prince Joffrey told Arya, never taking his eyes off the butcher’s boy.
Arya went for him.
They rolled in the grass, the wolf snarling and ripping at him, the prince shrieking in pain. “Get it off,” he screamed. “Get it off!”
Arya’s voice cracked like a whip. “Nymeria!”
The direwolf let go of Joffrey and moved to Arya’s side. The prince lay in the grass, whimpering, cradling his mangled arm. His shirt was soaked in blood. Arya said, “She didn’t hurt you… much.” She picked up Lion’s Tooth where it had fallen, and stood over him, holding the sword with both hands.
She had thought she had known what it meant to be afraid, but she learned better in that storehouse beside the Gods Eye. Eight days she had lingered there before the Mountain gave the command to march, and every day she had seen someone die…There was no place to hide, no tricks to play, no way to be safe….
The questions were always the same. Was there gold hidden in the village? Silver, gems? Was there more food? Where was Lord Beric Dondarrion? Which of the village folk had aided him? When he rode off, where did he go? How many men were with them? How many knights, how many bowmen, how many men-at-arms? How were they armed? How many were horsed? How many were wounded? What other enemy had they seen? How many? When? What banners did they fly? Where did they go? Was there gold hidden in the village? Silver, gems? Where was Lord Beric Dondarrion? How many men were with him? By the third day, Arya could have asked the questions herself.
It was the easiest thing in the world for Arya to step up behind him and stab him.
“Is there gold hidden in the village?” she shouted as she drove the blade up through his back. “Is there silver? Gems?” She stabbed twice more. “Is there food? Where is Lord Beric?” She was on top of him by then, still stabbing. “Where did he go? How many men were with him? How many knights? How many bowmen? How many, how many, how many, how many, how many, how many? is there gold in the village?
One of the spearmen drifted over to Lommy. “Something wrong with your leg, boy?”
“It got hurt.”
“Can you walk?” He sounded concerned.
“No,” said Lommy. “You got to carry me.”
“Think so?” The man lifted his spear casually and drove the point through the boy’s soft throat.
Lommy never even had time to yield again. He jerked once, and that was all. When the man pulled his spear loose, blood sprayed out in a dark fountain. “Carry him, he says,” he muttered, chuckling.
"Can’t you walk?”
“Walk?” His fingers were slick with blood. “Are you blind, girl? I’m bleeding like a stuck pig. I can’t walk on this.”
“Well,” she said, “I don’t know how you’ll get there, then.”
“You’ll need to carry me.”
See? thought Mercy. You know your line, and so do I.
“Think so?” asked Arya, sweetly.
Raff the Sweetling looked up sharply as the long thin blade came sliding from her sleeve. She slipped it through his throat beneath the chin, twisted, and ripped it back out sideways with a single smooth slash.
Throwing sadists’ words back in their faces as they are for once the ones not delighting in administering pain but rather dealt what they’re given since AGoT-
Arya Stark, ladies and gentlemen.