Startled, Arya whirled. A stableboy stood behind her, a smirk on his face, his filthy white undertunic peeking out from beneath a soiled jerkin. His boots were covered with manure, and he had a pitchfork in one hand. Who are you? she asked.
She dont know me, he said, but I knows her, oh, yes. The wolf girl.
Help me saddle a horse, Arya pleaded, reaching back into the chest, groping for Needle. My fathers the Hand of the King, hell reward you.
Fathers dead, the boy said. He shuffled toward her. Its the queen wholl be rewarding me. Come here, girl.
Stay away! Her fingers closed around Needles hilt.
I says, come. He grabbed her arm, hard.
Everything Syrio Forel had ever taught her vanished in a heartbeat. In that instant of sudden terror, the only lesson Arya could remember was the one Jon Snow had given her, the very first. She stuck him with the pointy end, driving the blade upward with a wild, hysterical strength.
Needle went through his leather jerkin and the white flesh of his belly and came out between his shoulder blades. The boy dropped the pitchfork and made a soft noise, something between a gasp and a sigh. His hands closed around the blade. Oh, gods, he moaned, as his undertunic began to redden. Take it out.
When she took it out, he died.
The horses were screaming. Arya stood over the body, still and frightened in the face of death. Blood had gushed from the boys mouth as he collapsed, and more was seeping from the slit in his belly, pooling beneath his body. His palms were cut where hed grabbed at the blade. She backed away slowly, Needle red in her hand. She had to get away, someplace far from here, someplace safe away from the stableboys accusing eyes.
