A Clash of Kings (A Song of Ice and Fire, #2)

by George R.R. Martin

When she reached him she pushed back her cloak so he would see the flayed man on her breast. “Lord Bolton sent me.” “At this hour? Why for?” She could see the gleam of steel under the fur, and she did not know if she was strong enough to drive the point of the dagger through chainmail. His throat, it must be his throat, but he’s too tall, I’ll never reach it. For a moment she did not know what to say. For a moment she was a little girl again, and scared, and the rain on her face felt like tears. “He told me to give all his guards a silver piece, for their good service.” The words seemed to come out of nowhere. “Silver, you say?” He did not believe her, but he wanted to; silver was silver, after all. “Give it over, then.” Her fingers dug down beneath her tunic and came out clutching the coin Jaqen had given her. In the dark the iron could pass for tarnished silver. She held it out … and let it slip through her fingers. Cursing her softly, the man went to a knee to grope for the coin in the dirt, and there was his neck right in front of her. Arya slid her dagger out and drew it across his throat, as smooth as summer silk. His blood covered her hands in a hot gush and he tried to shout but there was blood in his mouth as well. “Valar morghulis,” she whispered as he died.