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- Джордж Мартин
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"
A
boy
they
took
,
"
his
father
said
.
"
What
are
you
now
?
"
"
A
man
,
"
Theon
answered
.
"
Your
blood
and
your
heir
.
"
Lord
Balon
grunted
.
"
We
shall
see
.
"
"
You
shall
,
"
Theon
promised
.
"
Ten
years
,
you
say
.
Stark
had
you
as
long
as
I
.
And
now
you
come
as
his
envoy
.
"
"
Not
his
,
"
Theon
said
.
"
Lord
Eddard
is
dead
,
beheaded
by
the
Lannister
queen
.
"
"
They
are
both
dead
,
Stark
and
that
Robert
who
broke
my
walls
with
his
stones
.
I
vowed
I
’
d
live
to
see
them
both
in
their
graves
,
and
I
have
.
"
He
grimaced
.
"
Yet
the
cold
and
the
damp
still
make
my
joints
ache
,
as
when
they
were
alive
.
So
what
does
it
serve
?
"
"
It
serves
.
"
Theon
moved
closer
.
"
I
bring
a
letter
—
"
"
Did
Ned
Stark
dress
you
like
that
?
"
his
father
interrupted
,
squinting
up
from
beneath
his
robe
.
"
Was
it
his
pleasure
to
garb
you
in
velvets
and
silks
and
make
you
his
own
sweet
daughter
?
"
Theon
felt
the
blood
rising
to
his
face
.
"
I
am
no
man
’
s
daughter
.
If
you
mislike
my
garb
,
I
will
change
it
.
"
