As the sword nudged deeper and deeper into her wound, Arya couldn’t help the small whimpers of pain, her eyes screwed shut. But she wouldn’t cry, wouldn’t let a single tear fall. She wouldn’t dare give him that privilege. Instead, Arya dared to look up at him, her eyes full of loathing and venom.
"I won’t. I won’t beg, not to you."
And with that, she aimed and spat straight in his face.
The sound of the Stark whimpering was like music to Joffrey’s ears. It wasn’t begging, which was his ultimate goal, but it was progress. The fact that Arya was refusing to succumb to his demands was continually irking him, which didn’t mix well with his short temper and sadistic ways.
—That did it. Being spat at, straight in his face, was enough to finally make the spark meet the end of the Prince’s short fuse. “I’ll have you killed, you disrespectful little cunt!” he snapped, pressing down firmly on his sword. He cared naught if his blade were to pierce straight through the girl’s hand, for all he could see right now was red. Using his free hand, Joffrey wiped the spit from his face. “Beg your Prince. Now,” he demanded, a furious tremble in his voice as he spoke through clenched teeth. “Lest you wish to lose your hand.” Arya already had a gaping wound in her palm, the sword still pushed through, so it wouldn’t take much more effort to completely remove the girl’s hand.