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- Джордж Мартин
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And
gods
be
good
,
get
someone
in
here
at
once
to
change
these
rushes
.
"
"
Yes
,
m
’
lord
.
As
you
command
.
"
She
fled
.
After
some
time
,
they
brought
the
hot
water
he
had
asked
for
.
It
was
only
tepid
,
and
soon
cold
,
and
seawater
in
the
bargain
,
but
it
served
to
wash
the
dust
of
the
long
ride
from
his
face
and
hair
and
hands
.
While
two
thralls
lit
his
braziers
,
Theon
stripped
off
his
travel
-
stained
clothing
and
dressed
to
meet
his
father
.
He
chose
boots
of
supple
black
leather
,
soft
lambswool
breeches
of
silvery
-
grey
,
a
black
velvet
doublet
with
the
golden
kraken
of
the
Greyjoys
embroidered
on
the
breast
.
Around
his
throat
he
fastened
a
slender
gold
chain
,
around
his
waist
a
belt
of
bleached
white
leather
.
He
hung
a
dirk
at
one
hip
and
a
longsword
at
the
other
,
in
scabbards
striped
black
-
and
-
gold
.
Drawing
the
dirk
,
he
tested
its
edge
with
his
thumb
,
pulled
a
whetstone
from
his
belt
pouch
,
and
gave
it
a
few
licks
.
He
prided
himself
on
keeping
his
weapons
sharp
.
"
When
I
return
,
I
shall
expect
a
warm
room
and
clean
rushes
,
"
he
warned
the
thralls
as
he
drew
on
a
pair
of
black
gloves
,
the
silk
decorated
with
a
delicate
scrollwork
tracery
in
golden
thread
.
Theon
returned
to
the
Great
Keep
through
a
covered
stone
walkway
,
the
echoes
of
his
footsteps
mingling
with
the
ceaseless
rumble
of
the
sea
below
.
To
get
to
the
Sea
Tower
on
its
crooked
pillar
,
he
had
to
cross
three
further
bridges
,
each
narrower
than
the
one
before
.
The
last
was
made
of
rope
and
wood
,
and
the
wet
salt
wind
made
it
sway
underfoot
like
a
living
thing
.
Theon
’
s
heart
was
in
his
mouth
by
the
time
he
was
halfway
across
.
A
long
way
below
,
the
waves
threw
up
tall
plumes
of
spray
as
they
crashed
against
the
rock
.
As
a
boy
,
he
used
to
run
across
this
bridge
,
even
in
the
black
of
night
.
Boys
believe
nothing
can
hurt
them
,
his
doubt
whispered
.
Grown
men
know
better
.
The
door
was
grey
wood
studded
with
iron
,
and
Theon
found
it
barred
from
the
inside
.
He
hammered
on
it
with
a
fist
,
and
cursed
when
a
splinter
snagged
the
fabric
of
his
glove
.
The
wood
was
damp
and
moldy
,
the
iron
studs
rusted
.
After
a
moment
the
door
was
opened
from
within
by
a
guard
in
a
black
iron
breastplate
and
pot
-
helm
.
"
You
are
the
son
?
"
"
Out
of
my
way
,
or
you
’
ll
learn
who
I
am
.
"
The
man
stood
aside
.
Theon
climbed
the
twisting
steps
to
the
solar
.
He
found
his
father
seated
beside
a
brazier
,
beneath
a
robe
of
musty
sealskins
that
covered
him
foot
to
chin
.
At
the
sound
of
boots
on
stone
,
the
Lord
of
the
Iron
Islands
lifted
his
eyes
to
behold
his
last
living
son
.
He
was
smaller
than
Theon
remembered
him
.
And
so
gaunt
.
Balon
Greyjoy
had
always
been
thin
,
but
now
he
looked
as
though
the
gods
had
put
him
in
a
cauldron
and
boiled
every
spare
ounce
of
flesh
from
his
bones
,
until
nothing
remained
but
hair
and
skin
.
Bone
-
thin
and
bone
-
hard
he
was
,
with
a
face
that
might
have
been
chipped
from
flint
.
His
eyes
were
flinty
too
,
black
and
sharp
,
but
the
years
and
the
salt
winds
had
turned
his
hair
the
grey
of
a
winter
sea
,
flecked
with
whitecaps
.
Unbound
,
it
hung
past
the
small
of
the
back
.
"
Nine
years
,
is
it
?
"
Lord
Balon
said
at
last
.
"
Ten
,
"
Theon
answered
,
pulling
off
his
torn
gloves
.
