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- Джордж Мартин
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The
gates
stood
open
to
him
,
the
rusted
iron
portcullis
drawn
up
.
The
guards
atop
the
battlements
watched
with
strangers
’
eyes
as
Theon
Greyjoy
came
home
at
last
.
Beyond
the
curtain
wall
were
half
a
hundred
acres
of
headland
hard
against
the
sky
and
the
sea
.
The
stables
were
here
,
and
the
kennels
,
and
a
scatter
of
other
outbuildings
.
Sheep
and
swine
huddled
in
their
pens
while
the
castle
dogs
ran
free
.
To
the
south
were
the
cliffs
,
and
the
wide
stone
bridge
to
the
Great
Keep
.
Theon
could
hear
the
crashing
of
waves
as
he
swung
down
from
his
saddle
.
A
stableman
came
to
take
his
horse
.
A
pair
of
gaunt
children
and
some
thralls
stared
at
him
with
dull
eyes
,
but
there
was
no
sign
of
his
lord
father
,
nor
anyone
else
he
recalled
from
boyhood
.
A
bleak
and
bitter
homecoming
,
he
thought
.
The
priest
had
not
dismounted
.
"
Will
you
not
stay
the
night
and
share
our
meat
and
mead
,
Uncle
?
"
"
Bring
you
,
I
was
told
.
You
are
brought
.
Now
I
return
to
our
god
’
s
business
.
"
Aeron
Greyjoy
turned
his
horse
and
rode
slowly
out
beneath
the
muddy
spikes
of
the
portcullis
.
A
bentback
old
crone
in
a
shapeless
grey
dress
approached
him
warily
.
"
M
’
lord
,
I
am
sent
to
show
you
to
chambers
.
"
"
By
whose
bidding
?
"
"
Your
lord
father
,
m
’
lord
.
"
Theon
pulled
off
his
gloves
.
"
So
you
do
know
who
I
am
.
Why
is
my
father
not
here
to
greet
me
?
"
"
He
awaits
you
in
the
Sea
Tower
,
m
’
lord
.
When
you
are
rested
from
your
trip
.
"
