Arya didn’t know how much Robb would pay for her, though. He was a king now, not the boy she’d left at Winterfell with snow melting in his hair. And if he knew the things she’d done, the stableboy and the guard at Harrenhal and all … “What if my brother doesn’t want to ransom me?”
“Why would you think that?” asked Lord Beric.
“Well,” Arya said, “my hair’s messy and my nails are dirty and my feet are all hard.” Robb wouldn’t care about that, probably, but her mother would. Lady Catelyn always wanted her to be like Sansa, to sing and dance and sew and mind her courtesies. Just thinking of it made Arya try to comb her hair with her fingers, but it was all tangles and mats, and all she did was tear some out. “I ruined that gown that Lady Smallwood gave me, and I don’t sew so good.” She chewed her lip. “I don’t sew very well, I mean. Septa Mordane used to say I had a blacksmith’s hands.”
Gendry hooted. “Those soft little things?” he called out. “You couldn’t even hold a hammer.”
“I could if I wanted!” she snapped at him.
Thoros chuckled. “Your brother will pay, child. Have no fear on that count.”
“Yes, but what if he won’t?” she insisted.

Arya slid her dagger out and drew it across his throat, as smooth as summer silk.
”Valar morghulis,” she whispered as he died.
30 Hours of Game of Thrones, Hour 1: Your Favorite Female Character
“Is there gold hidden in the village? Is there silver? Gems? Is there food? Where is Lord Beric? 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?” – Arya Stark, stabbing in rhythm (x)