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- Джордж Мартин
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There
were
guests
in
Winterfell
,
visitors
come
for
the
harvest
feast
.
This
morning
they
would
be
tilting
at
quintains
in
the
yard
.
Once
that
prospect
would
have
filled
him
with
excitement
,
but
that
was
before
.
Not
now
.
The
Walders
would
break
lances
with
the
squires
of
Lord
Manderly
’
s
escort
,
but
Bran
would
have
no
part
of
it
.
He
must
play
the
prince
in
his
father
’
s
solar
.
"
Listen
,
and
it
may
be
that
you
will
learn
something
of
what
lordship
is
all
about
,
"
Maester
Luwin
had
said
.
Bran
had
never
asked
to
be
a
prince
.
It
was
knighthood
he
had
always
dreamed
of
;
bright
armor
and
streaming
banners
,
lance
and
sword
,
a
warhorse
between
his
legs
.
Why
must
he
waste
his
days
listening
to
old
men
speak
of
things
he
only
half
understood
?
Because
you
’
re
broken
,
a
voice
inside
reminded
him
.
A
lord
on
his
cushioned
chair
might
be
crippled
—
the
Walders
said
their
grandfather
was
so
feeble
he
had
to
be
carried
everywhere
in
a
litter
—
but
not
a
knight
on
his
destrier
.
Besides
,
it
was
his
duty
.
"
You
are
your
brother
’
s
heir
and
the
Stark
in
Winterfell
,
"
Ser
Rodrik
said
,
reminding
him
of
how
Robb
used
to
sit
with
their
lord
father
when
his
bannermen
came
to
see
him
.
Lord
Wyman
Manderly
had
arrived
from
White
Harbor
two
days
past
,
traveling
by
barge
and
litter
,
as
he
was
too
fat
to
sit
a
horse
.
With
him
had
come
a
long
tail
of
retainers
:
knights
,
squires
,
lesser
lords
and
ladies
,
heralds
,
musicians
,
even
a
juggler
,
all
aglitter
with
banners
and
surcoats
in
what
seemed
half
a
hundred
colors
.
Bran
had
welcomed
them
to
Winterfell
from
his
father
’
s
high
stone
seat
with
the
direwolves
carved
into
the
arms
,
and
afterward
Ser
Rodrik
had
said
he
’
d
done
well
.
If
that
had
been
the
end
of
it
,
he
would
not
have
minded
.
But
it
was
only
the
beginning
.
"
The
feast
makes
a
pleasant
pretext
,
"
Ser
Rodrik
explained
,
"
but
a
man
does
not
cross
a
hundred
leagues
for
a
sliver
of
duck
and
a
sip
of
wine
.
Only
those
who
have
matters
of
import
to
set
before
us
are
like
to
make
the
journey
.
"
Bran
gazed
up
at
the
rough
stone
ceiling
above
his
head
.
Robb
would
tell
him
not
to
play
the
boy
,
he
knew
.
He
could
almost
hear
him
,
and
their
lord
father
as
well
.
Winter
is
coming
,
and
you
are
almost
a
man
grown
,
Bran
.
You
have
a
duty
.
When
Hodor
came
bustling
in
,
smiling
and
humming
tunelessly
,
he
found
the
boy
resigned
to
his
fate
.
Together
they
got
him
washed
and
brushed
.
"
The
white
wool
doublet
today
,
"
Bran
commanded
.
"
And
the
silver
brooch
.
Ser
Rodrik
will
want
me
to
look
lordly
.
"
As
much
as
he
could
,
Bran
preferred
to
dress
himself
,
but
there
were
some
tasks
—
pulling
on
breeches
,
lacing
his
boots
—
that
vexed
him
.
They
went
quicker
with
Hodor
’
s
help
.
Once
he
had
been
taught
to
do
something
,
he
did
it
deftly
.
His
hands
were
always
gentle
,
though
his
strength
was
astonishing
.
"
You
could
have
been
a
knight
too
,
I
bet
,
"
Bran
told
him
.
"
If
the
gods
hadn
’
t
taken
your
wits
,
you
would
have
been
a
great
knight
.
"
"
Hodor
?
"
Hodor
blinked
at
him
with
guileless
brown
eyes
,
eyes
innocent
of
understanding
.
