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- Джордж Мартин
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"
You
will
.
"
Throwing
off
the
furs
,
Lord
Balon
pushed
himself
to
his
feet
.
He
was
not
so
tall
as
Theon
remembered
.
"
That
bauble
around
your
neck
—
was
it
bought
with
gold
or
iron
?
"
Theon
touched
the
gold
chain
.
He
had
forgotten
.
It
has
been
so
long
.
.
.
In
the
Old
Way
,
women
might
decorate
themselves
with
ornaments
bought
with
coin
,
but
a
warrior
wore
only
the
jewelry
he
took
off
the
corpses
of
enemies
slain
by
his
own
hand
.
Paying
the
iron
price
,
it
was
called
.
"
You
blush
red
as
a
maid
,
Theon
.
A
question
was
asked
.
Is
it
the
gold
price
you
paid
,
or
the
iron
?
"
"
The
gold
,
"
Theon
admitted
.
His
father
slid
his
fingers
under
the
necklace
and
gave
it
a
yank
so
hard
it
was
like
to
take
Theon
’
s
head
off
,
had
the
chain
not
snapped
first
.
"
My
daughter
has
taken
an
axe
for
a
lover
,
"
Lord
Balon
said
.
"
I
will
not
have
my
son
bedeck
himself
like
a
whore
.
"
He
dropped
the
broken
chain
onto
the
brazier
,
where
it
slid
down
among
the
coals
.
"
It
is
as
I
feared
.
The
green
lands
have
made
you
soft
,
and
the
Starks
have
made
you
theirs
.
"
"
You
’
re
wrong
.
Ned
Stark
was
my
gaoler
,
but
my
blood
is
still
salt
and
iron
.
"
Lord
Balon
turned
away
to
warm
his
bony
hands
over
the
brazier
.
"
Yet
the
Stark
pup
sends
you
to
me
like
a
well
-
trained
raven
,
clutching
his
little
message
.
"
"
There
is
nothing
small
about
the
letter
I
bear
,
"
Theon
said
,
"
and
the
offer
he
makes
is
one
I
suggested
to
him
.
"
"
This
wolf
king
heeds
your
counsel
,
does
he
?
"
The
notion
seemed
to
amuse
Lord
Balon
.
